Loyalty's Shadow: Part II
by celestial-insanity
Summary: The Circle brought them together, and then they forced them apart. Struggling to cope with betrayal, Abigail Amell rises to the challenge of the Grey Wardens--with the help of some friends along the way.
1. Introductions

**A/N: **Everybody, thank you so, so much for following Part I. :) In Part II we'll learn of Teresa's disappearance, Jowan's flight from danger, and how Abigail, the Grey Warden, deals with personal betrayal as she begins the adventure that has implications for the rest of Ferelden–and the world. This story, like the one before, focuses on character development throughout the game.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Ostagar (1 day before Loghain betrays the King)**

Long before sunrise, even before the faint blush of gold had touched the green peaks of the flora-filled mountains surrounding the fortress of Ostagar, the signal-torches were waving. The sky above was still dark overhead, the moon sailing silver-bright between fading stars as the soldiers gathered underneath the large arch overshadowing the bridge. Twenty tough, brave men stood completely still, their polished armor gleaming brightly in the moon, their breath rising in puffs of mist in the cold, crisp air.

The soldiers did not whisper to one another. Shivering as the cool metal touched their bare skin, they watched with darkened, intense eyes as the small group of individuals walked slowly over the stone bridge. The quiet footsteps of the incoming visitors and the swish of their robes made a kind of wordless murmur beneath the harsh silence. Most of them carried long, thin staffs of wood.

As one, the soldiers began to clap as the representatives of the Circle of the Magi approached, their shoulders and spirits sagging from the harsh pace they'd endured to reach the fortress in time. A quick count put their numbers to seven mages in total, but they were also accompanied by some without a staff. All were led by a dignified woman in the red robes of a Senior Enchanter. Her white hair was scrapped behind her head to form the smallest of ponytails, and even that seemed to shine in the moon's rays. Her eyes were bright and intelligent. She used her magical staff as a walking stick, and even it seemed to emit a faint, silvery glow. It was different from the ones used by the others; it was bone-white and beautiful, like a petrified tree branch.

At the head of the soldiers, a man in fine golden armor stepped foreword. "Welcome to Ostagar," he said, the tone of his voice suggesting that he'd never frowned a day in his life. "Your help is most appreciated."

"We thank you for your hospitality, King Cailan" said their leader, bowing her head a little in respect. She reached within the folds of her robes and handed him a sealed letter. "Duncan shall arrive tomorrow, if he is able. The details are in the letter."

King Cailan was a tall, imposing man with a cheerful face and long, wheat-colored hair that was pulled back for battle. He cut a handsome figure in his polished gold battle armor, and more than one of the younger females in the mages' company gave him their full, undivided attention. He took the letter and turned it over to check the Grey Warden seal, then tucked it into a pouch on his waist. "Thank you, I'm very eager to read it. I understand your haste and thank you for it, but the time for talk will have to be tomorrow. Come, we'll take you to your campgrounds so you can rest and prepare yourselves for tomorrow. May I have your name, dear woman?"

"My name is Wynne, your majesty," she said with another gracious tilt of her head. "Sleep would be most welcome."

Another man, as tall and imposing as King Cailan, but bald and nowhere near as handsome, said, "And I am Uldred."

"Wynne, Uldred." King Cailan nodded and motioned for the soldiers, his personal honor guard, to clear a path so they could pass through underneath the arch, past a large bonfire attended to by several elves, and towards their designated camp grounds. As they walked, the King pointed out several features of the camp and told them where their talents would be needed most. "My adviser, Teryn Loghain, will place you each within a regiment," he said. "If you need anything and you can't find me, he will most likely be in his tent going over the battle strategy."

Those who accompanied the mages, wore their clothes, but carried no staff, immediately set about preparing the campsite to their liking. Uldred payed them no mind, but Wynne noticed the King's eyes wander towards them and said, "They are Tranquil. They cannot fight, but their skill in the arcane arts and in herblore is unparalleled. Perhaps we'll speak more of it later."

"Indeed," he agreed, looking thoughtful. "Have a restful night."

Wynne bent down to help the Tranquil, as did several of the other mages, but Uldred and his followers merely set their packs on the ground and sat on them, resting their legs. Mages were vastly superior, at least physically, to most of the soldiers in the camp. Having trained, swam, and built up muscle for much of their time spent within the Circle, they could conjure more magic and aid them in the battle. It was a gratifying sight, but also humorous to some, for, despite a mage's great physical strength and stamina, they had no experience in martial combat. Hitting people over the head with their staffs would work just as well, but a staff won't bring down an ogre. It was vital that these newest additions be protected vehemently by their regiments.

"You really think the girl will make the right choice?" Uldred grumped at Wynne once the soldiers had gone away.

Wynne glanced up at the stars, at the shining face of the moon, and said, "I do not know. I hope so."

Uldred grunted, making it clear what he thought of her hope, then said, "Let's not hold our breath, then."

Back at the King's yellow canvas tent, which bore the King's seal on the front, Cailan and his advisor looked closely over the letter sent by the Grey Warden leader. "Nonsense," said Loghain, twirling a strand of hair around his finger as he contemplated the deeper meaning behind the message. "To stay behind for one mage is foolishness to the tenth degree."

"It does seem that way," Cailan agreed rather hesitantly. "But I trust his reasoning, sound or not. She's obviously capable of great feats of magic–perhaps we should put her in a combat posting instead of a defensive one?"

"You are assuming, of course, that she's actually released," Loghain said testily. "_If_ she agrees to join, and if the situation at the Circle is resolved." When the King didn't reply, he said, "We'll press on under the assumption that neither Duncan nor his new recruit will make it. I'll see to it that the mages are put to work in the morning. You cannot rely on the Grey Wardens for victory."

To this, the King did not answer. Instead, he folded Duncan's letter up. "Good night, Teryn Loghain."

Loghain bestowed on him a courteous nod and left the tent. The King merely shook his head at his friend's foolishness and stood. Following him out, he asked one of the elven runners stationed by the bridge to fetch Warden Astor from the west watchtower. Earlier that day after the battle, King Cailan had stationed the rest of the Grey Wardens at various lookouts throughout Ostagar, believing that they would be able to detect both threat and friend faster and better than the rest of his more mundane men, brave and valiant as they were, and so far they hadn't disappointed. Loghain might have thought it was folly, but he was just pouting and he knew when to draw the line, so the King wasn't very worried about him.

Astor was a middle-aged elf, smaller and slighter in build than the others, with a shock of dark hair cut curiously close to his scalp and an elegant tattoo upon his face colored in a deep purple ink. He was armed with a bow and arrow, as was his wont, and carried a hunting horn on his hip that blew a volume so loud that if he winded it now, then the Archdemon himself would have heard it. Elves weren't unheard of in the army, or in the Grey Wardens, but they were certainly rare enough to raise eyebrows. Duncan had placed him as a temporary leader in his stead, and from Kaing Cailan could see, Astor was proving to be a remarkable choice for his inventiveness, foreword thinking, and force of personality.

"My King." Astor crossed his arms over his chest and bowed, as was custom, then stood at ease until he was motioned to sit down on a small stool across from the King's own chair. "Duncan did not arrive with the mages. Did they bring a message?"

"He'll be a day late by their reckoning," said he. "Until then, you're still in charge. Also, the mages ferried a message from him to me. He's found another Grey Warden recruit at the Circle of Magi, but she couldn't come right away due to her Harrowing taking place that following night, which was two days ago."

Astor frowned. "An apprentice?"

King Cailan nodded and handed him the letter. Astor's hands, smaller than his own, took the parchment and began to read, his eyes flickering this way and that to make out the words in the soft candle-lit canvas tent. He read it one more time to memorize, then handed it back to the King. "Abigail Amell will be welcome in our ranks," he said, both his voice and tone neutral. "I have complete faith in Duncan's judgement."

"Good," said the King, nodding as he placed the letter in his breast pocket. "Now, have the darkspawn been doing anything I should be aware of?"

As Astor gave his report, the King could not help but long for the easygoing friendship with Duncan to replace this formal procedure. The elven Warden was decent, hardworking, and a viper on the battlefield when given a high spot and freedom to launch his arrows where he will, but he was also a very hard man to talk to about feelings in and of themselves. At least, he would not talk about them with the King, a human who allowed the segregation of elven-folk into the Alienage and whose government allowed them to become nothing more than servants to those who were their better. There was a stark contrast between he behavior towards he, Cailan, and the rest of the government to how he acted towards his fellow Grey Wardens. The King took it more as a personal opinion than something representative of the rest of the Grey Wardens, for he walked and talked with them whenever he got the chance and they seemed just as the stories described them–warriors without equal, ready to do whatever it took to defeat the darkspawn.

All of them seemed convinced it was a Blight, likely from Duncan's muttering, but the King was not so sure. The darkspawn had come together in a group bigger than he'd ever seen before, true, but it didn't mean that an Archdemon was behind it. It seemed to be just what it appeared on the surface: a really big group of idiots.

Astor finished his report quickly enough, saying that no, there was still no sign of an Archdemon, but it didn't mean that they should let their defenses drop in the slightest. The King agreed, then sent him on his way for a meal long overdue and rest, relieving him with a watchman from his own company, and glanced up at the sky, which was slowly but surely lightening up since he'd last been out. Across the way, near the mages' campsite, all was still with peaceful sleep, for some perhaps their last. It wasn't a cheery thought, but that was war, though this wasn't one, not yet. The best the King would be able to do would be to remember them in songs and tales, and more than one soldier today would live to tell their grandchildren about this fight–he swore it.

* * *

Alistair woke with a start as he always did, his heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline that only seemed to intensify the pounding in his head. He looked up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, and for the first time noticed the small, lithe form of Astor kneeling by the tent's open flap. His aged face was sympathetic. "More dreams?"

"Uh. . . yeah, kind of." Alistair's tongue felt thick and fuzzy in his mouth. He stretched, working out the kinks in his back from sleeping on the cold, hard ground, and sat up. A burst of cold air hit his chest, and if he hadn't been wearing a thick shirt and breeches to bed it would have most surely stung like ice. "Same ones, over and over. . . never gets any easier. Are the mages here yet?"

"Seven, plus a few of their Tranquil according to Ser Jory." Astor had a tendency of becoming as still as stone when something was bothering him, something Alistair had discovered only recently. "Duncan was not among them."

Alistair was instantly alert, all sleep banished from his eyes. "What? Is he okay?"

"Hold your peace," said Astor. "He sent a letter ahead. He's found a new recruit at the Circle, a human woman. He'll be staying with her through her Harrowing. He should arrive by tonight."

Alistair evaluated the cautious look on Astor's face. "Well, that's good, right?" he asked, trying to play optimist. _Yeah, awesome, if he can get past an entire army of darkspawn on his way here. _Duncan had a history of cutting it close, but this was going to really be pushing it. "One more recruit for us, and a mage. What did Duncan say about her?"

And, almost reluctantly, Astor explained that her name was Abigail Amell, tall enough to look him in the eye, with light brown shoulder-length hair and brooding eyes. "Though she is only seventeen," Astor muttered in distaste. "Not even a full mage when they set out for here. If she does not make it out of the Circle alive, it will be a waste." Before Alistair could answer, Astor just shook his head as if ridding himself of an irksome tick. "My apologies. My nerves are jumpy, and I'm taking it out on Duncan. Battle is easy, but waiting is the hardest. That is what they say, anyway."

"What did you mean about her getting out of the Circle alive?" Alistair asked cautiously. "Duncan doesn't think she's practicing blood magic, does he?"

Astor treated him with a glare. "If she was, I highly doubt that he'd put that in a letter to King Cailan."

"Well. . ." He wanted to say that Cailan probably wouldn't care and that he'd bend over backwards for the Wardens, but it didn't seem particularly tactful. Astor was gripped in a foul, black mood, and there was no way Alistair was going to provoke him further. "Then what did you mean?"

"She–oh, blast it." Astor twisted his chest around nearly all the way back. "_Daveth_," he cursed, getting up. He disappeared. Alistair hurriedly put his armor on and made sure his sword was on his hip before following. Astor looked as thunderous as an elf could look, one full foot shorter than an average man. But what he lacked in height he made up for with pure aggression, and Alistair found the sight of him bullying Daveth, who was a tall man, quite funny. His arms were crossed and he stood as still as only an elf could, laying out in direct, short detail about women's rights.

Daveth looked uncomfortable, hiding an item of clothing behind his back, and upon further investigation Alistair realized that it was a support-cloth for one of the maidservants. One of the _elven_ maidservants.

"Ooooh, _drama,_" Alistair whispered jokingly towards one of the other Grey Wardens who had come out of his tent to investigate the racket before he had.

"Indeed," replied the man, grinning smugly.

"Five bronze on Astor killing him before the Joining?"

"No way. We _all_ know that's going to happen."

"Huh." Astor took the woman's bra from Daveth's hand, seemed to think better of it, and shoved it back. His voice low and controlled, he explained that Daveth was to put them _back_ before she realized it was gone and told him that the incident would be reported to Duncan. Daveth was cowed, a nervous smile on his face as he took his dressing-down, and saluted smartly when Astor seemed to be done with it. He ran off, clutching the bra in his hands for all to see, and Alistair dearly hoped he wouldn't go romping about with the thing on his chest. That would just be too much, and he'd be honor-bound to kill him just to restore the Grey Warden name. He chuckled at the look on Astor's face. "He does _not_ look happy at all."

"We lost three Grey Wardens in the fighting yesterday, under his command," his comrade reminded him, suddenly sober. Alistair recognized him as one of the older Wardens in the camp, though he didn't know his name nor how long he'd been a member. "With an Archdemon on the horizon. . . well, that's a lot. We're too few to begin with. Reinforcements from Orlais are going to be too slow in coming. By then we could fall. It's not an easy burden for Astor, nor Duncan."

"What's going to happen when the Archdemon decides to come?" Alistair asked, glancing up at him.

He deeply-tanned face was grim. "We'll kill it, at the cost of many lives. Mine. Yours, probably."

"You're such a cheery person," he said drily.

He rubbed his brow. Astor was walking away back towards his tent, unbuckling his weapons as he did so. He disappeared inside and wasn't seen again for the remainder of the morning. "The dreams are getting worse."

Alistair remembered with a jolt the dream that had visited him during the night, a vision of a dark, twisted dragon corrupted by the Taint. Its eyes smouldered with white flames, too bright to look at directly, and it roared a battle cry that chilled him to the very center of his bones, even now. "You, too, huh?"

"All of us, probably. If only Cailan and Loghain would believe it's a true Blight. . ." The senior Grey Warden sighed. He clapped Alistair on the back and went to go help Jaing, a mage originally from Antiva, who had been wounded in the last fight. The poor man was sitting on the grass rubbing a piece of slate over the tip of a soldier's spear despite the amount of bandages holding the muscle in his shoulder together; his arm had been partly severed from an ax. Tears were in his eyes.

With a start, Alistair realized who the spear belonged to: a woman with short copper hair and an open, honest face. She had been in his group of protectors, and they had both taken a liking to each other. From Jaing's demeanor, it was clear she didn't make it.

How could somebody find love so quickly, only to lose it in the blink of an eye?

The senior Grey Warden, his comrade, bent at Jaing's ear and whispered a few comforting words he seemed not to hear. He kept talking, and finally Jaing lay down the spear and stared at the fire with his head bowed so low his chin nearly dropped on to his chest. The Warden, who Alistair suddenly recognized as Marcus, took off his cloak and placed it around Jaing's shoulders. He walked off, carrying the stone so their mage wouldn't hurt himself as he sharpened the spear's point. Alistair caught up with him. "Duncan found a new recruit," he said, trying to push away the thought of Jaing sitting there behind him, lonely and depressed. "A woman from the Circle. They'll be here tomorrow."

"So you'll prepare the Joining ritual?" Marcus asked.

Alistair nodded. "Can you tell the others at breakfast?"

"Might as well."

And so ended their great conversation.

* * *

The mages made themselves useful hours later when they woke. The Tranquil sat in a large group of seven around the giant campfire, piles of mushroom roots and Andraste knows what else at their feet. Their hands worked quickly and nimbly as they created poultices out of nothing, stirred up formidable potions, and enchanted the weapons of the King's chosen with small amounts of lyrium. Like the dwarves, the Tranquil could touch liquid lyrium, the essence of magic, without fear of dying or becoming insane, though, in Alistair's opinion, they already _were._ They were all so calm and collected, speaking only when spoken to, putting up with their work with no complaint, no twitch of expression. They were just _there,_ empty husks devoid of personality or life, given a task. Slaves. It didn't endear the rest of the soldiers to them, and many crossed themselves as they passed to ward off evil spirits. If mages had to arrogance to bring about a fate like this on people as close to them as kin, then what, then, would they deign to do with the world if they were set free?

The mages themselves were spread about the camp, seven in number as the Tranquil were. Wynne, their leader, had retreated to the shadow of a large tree next to the speaker's podium, her supplies laid out around her. What she was doing was a mystery, and some thought she was even praying until she got up and, taking her things, went to the stretch of field where the injured lay and set about curing those she could without overexerting herself for the battle. Four other mages, guarded by a group of Templars, were contacting the Fade in another area far away from the others. Uldred had disappeared into Teryn Loghain's tent to better understand the roles his people would play in the battle. And the seventh mage. . .

Alistair was having trouble keeping his self-control. Bad fish-wife tales of angry magicians turning their adversaries into toads gave him enough caution so he wasn't _overly_ rude. After all, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. . . well, not close enough to regret it later.

It was late afternoon when Mother Tora found him eating lunch near the quartermaster's area, keeping an eye on the archway that would belie the presence of his mentor and his new mage recruit as soon as they arrived. Mother Tora was a tall old woman, thin as a stick, with coal-black hair that smelled curiously of ashes. Alistair didn't even know how it happened or how she got him to agree, but soon enough he was done with his lunch and was off to find the seventh mage, a mocha-skinned man named Dugran. It was past time to tick off the senior mages, anyway. Finally, Alistair had him cornered across from the King's pavillion, and he was not happy.

"What is it _now?_ Haven't the Grey Wardens asked enough of the Circle?"

"I simply came to deliver a message, ser mage," said Alistair cautiously. "The Revered Mother. . . desires your presence."

Alistair wasn't totally clueless–he'd been chosen for the errand because he was a former Templar, and she knew that, and now the mages did, too. He would have preferred _not_ to do it. The only upside of being turned into a toad, he thought offhandedly, is that he could jump from one darkspawn to another, eat flies, and have an absurdly long tongue.

Dugran wasn't clueless, either. "What Her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me," he said, flustered. "I am busy helping the Grey Wardens–by the King's orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" Alistair asked lightly.

Dugran took a step closer, jabbing his finger outwards to poke Alistair in the chest. The air around him smelled vaguely of electricity. "Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner," he ordered.

"Yes, yes," Alistair said, his eyes tightening in preparation despite the casualty of his tone. "I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message."

"Your glibness does you no credit." They locked eyes for a moment, brown against green, and the mage took one step backwards. Obviously, he didn't wish to turn him into a frog yet. _More's the pity, I suppose._

"Here I thought we were getting along so well," said Alistair. "I was even going to name one of my children after you. . . the _grumpy_ one."

"Enough!" Dugran snarled, glancing to his right. Alistair glanced that way, too, out of habit, and saw that they had an audience. A young woman, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, was watching the exchange with a neutral expression most commonly associated with the Tranquil. But Alistair could see some life in her eyes, negating that theory. She wore a long black traveling cloak over yellow robes stained with the dirt of the wilds. Her light brown hair seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, and her eyes were squinted against the glare of the light upon the stone, hiding its color. Her tall, athletic build was superimposed in the bright glare. "I will speak to the woman if I must," Dugran continued, albeit quieter. He turned away and stalked off, pushing the woman to the side as he did so. "Out of my way, _apprentice._"

Alistair watched him go, the brief surge of frustration in his gut asking for permission to hit him over the head with the hilt of the biggest sword in camp. "One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," he muttered, glancing at the woman with a small, amused smile on his face.

"You are a very strange man," said she. Her voice was quiet, like she'd spent the whole of her life in a library, but the way she carried herself spoke of confidence.

"I've been called that before," he said, chuckling. He tried to place her as one of the faces he'd seen around the mage section of camp, but came up clueless. "Wait, we haven't met before, have we? You must be Duncan's recruit."

He held out his hand to shake. "Abigail Amell," she said wistfully, glancing around Ostagar. "And that was Wenn Dugran. He doesn't like me, either."

"Ah. . . so you're a mage."

"Scared?" she asked quietly.

"Hardly," he said sarcastically. "Just want to know my chances of being turned into something unnatural on any given day."

She looked tired and worn-out, but she snorted anyway.

"Glad to meet you," he said. "As the junior member of our order, I'll be accompanying you through your Joining."

"More tests," she grumbled. "I've had my fill of those."

"Ah, yes, that's right, you just completed your Harrowing." He tried to appear knowledgeable in the fact, smiling and nodding. "Well, yellow robes. . . I take it you succeeded?"

A shadow seemed to flicker over her eyes. "I did. Thank you."

"What was it like?" he asked. "I've always wondered."

She ignored him. "What were you and Dugran arguing about?" she asked.

"Oh, you caught that, didn't you?" he asked. He just shook his head and shrugged. "Okay, before you get any ideas, I'm a Templar. Actually, I'm not–I never completed the rights or anything before Duncan recruited me. But words gets around. It was the Revered Mother's kind of sick joke to send me as her errand boy. Obviously, he picked up on it, though being made fun of seems like a regular occurrence to him."

She didn't seem happy about his Templar status, but she didn't press it. He wondered if it was her common sense telling her not to make a big deal about it r if she was ordered not to say anything. "Duncan is by the large bonfire near the bridge. He wants us the report to him with the other recruits. Daveth and Ser Jory."

"Ah, okay. Have you met them yet?"

"No, I haven't."

"I'll just go fetch them, then. Meet you there."

Without another word Abigail turned around and began to walk back the way she'd come, and he was confused. Suddenly he remembered Astor's words, about there being trouble at the Circle, and that she might not make it out alive. Obviously, she had.

And then another thing hit him.

Why didn't she have a staff?

After rounding up both Ser Jory and Daveth, then sending an elven messenger to the Wardens to let them know that Duncan was back and the Joining was going to start soon, Alistair led the two men to the bonfire. The Tranquil had abandoned it and set up stock somewhere behind them, but the lingering smell of acid and mushrooms still remained. Duncan clasped Alistair's arm in greeting, then set about telling the recruits the bare minimum that they would need to know to complete the Joining.

"The Joining relies heavily on your ability to get a single vial of darkspawn blood that you, yourself, have killed," he said. "You will be sent into the Korcari Wilds to kill any stragglers from the Horde you might find. Alistair–" Duncan turned his way "–I have a separate task for you. There is an old Grey Warden outpost you must visit while you're out. A strongbox lies within, which protects a variety of treaties that may help us later. They were written after the last war, promising aid from various alliances across Ferelden. It is essential that you find these and return them to me."

Alistair bowed his head. "I won't let you down, Duncan," he said seriously.

"Do this quickly," said his mentor, "for we don't have much time."

He dismissed them then, but Alistair stayed, motioning for them to continue ahead. "I'm glad you're all right," he said quietly. "I thought you'd miss it."

"I pushed as hard as I could," Duncan assured him, then said more quietly, "Watch over Abigail, Alistair. She's had a rough few days."

"Is she up for fighting without a staff?"

Duncan nodded. "Yes. But Alistair, no matter how confident or cold she may appear on the surface, she's hurt." He held up one finger, cutting Alistair off before he could say anything. "I'll tell you enough so you know what to expect, but do not bring this up with her. Abigail's best friend called upon her aid after she finished the Harrowing. He was a blood mage, but led her to believe that he wasn't, that he was being falsely accused. When we cornered them he performed it, which hurt many, and she was going to die for helping a friend escape the Circle. She's a powerful woman, clever, and she does what good she can, but I believe that her judgement may be warped after this. She's not likely to trust you, nor anybody."

Alistair's mind was blank, and he threw another glance her way. She was inside the dog kennels, petting a mabari hound and whispering to him. She glanced up as if she felt his glance and knew she was the object of their conversation, and for the first time he noticed the hurt and agony in her shoulders. "That's horrible," he said, looking back at Duncan. "Did you know it would happen?"

Duncan nodded, stroking his beard. "Yes. Unfortunately, yes. I would have saved her from the pain if I could, but the Knight-Commander insisted she prove her loyalty to the Circle the hard way. The only thing I could do was force the Right of Conscription." He looked away towards the fields, tense. "We have spoken too much. You must hurry, Alistair."

"I will," he promised.

He motioned for the others to join him at the gates leading out into the Korcari Wilds. Abigail kept looking at the dogs as if she'd never seen one before, smiling softly and holding out her hand for them to sniff. They responded well to her, to the amazement of their owners, and Alistair almost had to drag her into the Wilds himself. "You can't go petting every strange dog you see," he told her.

"I. . . yeah, I know."

When he leaned closer to her, he noticed she smelled like a dog, but not like the mabari she'd been petting. She threw one last glance behind her at the dogs, as if committing them to memory, and continued onwards.

* * *

Deeper they went into the woods, crouched low and making as little noise as possible. But neither Ser Jory, a red-haired man from Highever, nor Daveth were trained for it. Alistair led them in the general direction of the ruins. He knew of them and where they were located, so going by the sun's positioning in the sky he was able to lead them through the woodlands without going too far off target. He had to widen the search arc by about two miles, for he could sense the darkspawn infestation in the forest and he had to make sure his charges could do battle. The sun was beginning to drop in the sky when the first darkspawn came in sight.

They were monstrous things, and smelly, and when they came into sight both Daveth and Ser Jory took out their blades. Alistair did, too. The sound of their weapons being drawn from their sheaths wasn't loud, but the darkspawn scouting group, which included at least six Hurlocks and three Genlock archers, had sensed him. They turned around, their black, disfigured skin emitting the smell of rotten eggs and sulfuric gas, and roared a battle cry. As one, the six Hurlocks ran for them.

"I'll take left," Ser Jory said, and ran out with a battle cry that sounded across the forest. Daveth cursed and followed, running quickly, and Alistair used his shield to deflect an oncoming arrow.

A red light made itself known to him, sailing past his ear to engulf one of the archers in red flames that flickered with blue. Ser Jory was an excellent swordsman and was holding his own quite amicably as Daveth danced beside him, knocking away swords and dodging blows as only a thief could. Two of the remaining Hurlocks ran for him and he charged, hoping that their resident mage could keep the archers busy enough.

They were doing well, but Alistair was taking the brunt of it. Then, without warning, one of the Hurlocks detached himself from the fray and ran for Abigail–smart guy. Then Alistair realized something else, about the same time as Ser Jory–she didn't have a _staff._

Ser Jory yelled and spun around, running after the Hurlock, and out of the corner of his eye Alistair watched Abigail face it, her face a mask of hatred and fear. She held out her hand to do something, but he was closing in too fast. With a cry of triumph the Hurlock swung his greatsword. Just as Alistair thought she was about to become a mage-ka-bob, she dipped underneath the slice with nimble dexterity. Without a body there to stop his fall, the Hurlock stumbled over. He would have regained his balance if Abigail hadn't kicked him in the rump and sent him sprawling in the ground, right on his own sword.

Ser Jory stopped himself just in time and caught her eye. A look of understanding, relief, and fear passed between them. Then Alistair had to look away, and he was caught up in his own fighting.

Systematically they drove the darkspawn back until their feet were in the swampy waters and their mobility was damaged. Daveth let out a yell of triumph and sunk his blade deep into one throat, kicking the body to dislodge it from the blade. Another froze into a block of dry ice as it struck and, yowling in pain, it fell face-foreword into the waters and didn't rise again. Soon, everything was silent.

"Hurry up," Alistair said, sheathing his sword. He walked up to the Genlock archers on the small hill overlooking the battle and checked their pockets as quickly as he could without touching their blood–or what was left of it. Abigail had been pretty thorough, and most of the bodies were just charred corpses.

Somewhere to his left, one of the men was vomiting into the brush. He didn't even bother to see who it was–many, after all, had that same reaction when dealing with the darkspawn.

Done with looting the corpses, Alistair jumped from the hill and landed directly in front of Abigail. Her hair had been scraped back into a hasty bun and he noticed the color of her eyes for the first time. They were a pretty color of bluish-gray. Without a word, Alistair handed her the knife he'd taken from the dead of her first kill. "This pointy object is a skinning knife," he explained, handing it to her. The handle was still warm from the fire. "You stick these in darkspawn to see what comes out. I'd prefer you use it until I find you another staff."

She took it hesitantly and nodded, her cheeks reddening. "Alright. Thanks." She crossed over to the Hurlock she'd killed and siphoned some of the black blood into a tiny glass vial, using the blade of the knife as a sieve to direct the flow.

Alistair watched her, a small grin on his face. When she'd finished and caught him looking, he said, "You'll do, I think."

He went to see how Daveth and Ser Jory were faring. Ser Jory had eyes only for the small, frozen hand peeking out of the water, but Daveth seemed to be having a hard time. "I can't stand the smell," he complained, bent over in the bushes. "It gets to me, worse than the others."

"I know, and the only thing I can say is that it won't get any easier," said Alistair. "A ton of people vomit their first time, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Daveth sighed and hid his mouth and nose in his shirt as he imitated Abigail and placed the blood in the vial. Soon, they were ready to depart the small battlefield.

". . .wonderful spellwork," Ser Jory was whispering at the back of their procession. "Duncan found me at Highever. I beat all of the dueling champions. When he offered, I couldn't refuse. If there really is a Blight, I want to protect my wife. She's heavy with child, now."

"Congratulations," said Abigail softly, almost too quiet for Alistair to hear. "It will be an honor working with you, ser knight."

"And you as well, madam."

Alistair wondered how long Daveth would hold out against the new Jory-and-Abigail tag-team, and, with a small smirk on his face, climbed over an upturned log bearing a pure white flower with a red center and his the ground. "The ruins are northwest of here, about another half-hour," he said. "With any luck we might pass one of the scouting parties Teryn Loghain sent out earlier after yesterday's battle."

"And out of this forest as fast as possible," Ser Jory said furtively. "The very air feels tense, like someone is watching us."

"You just worry too much, ser knight," said Daveth.

Alistair stopped them about two minutes later when he caught sight of the fallen oxen. He crept foreword silently, his senses alert for any nearby darkspawn, and beheld the mess that had been made of the party. He grimly walked among his dead fellows, spattered with gore, and called the other three of them up. They walked slowly, surveying the carnage, and Abigail closed her eyes. "What fiends did this?" she asked. "Darkspawn?"

Alistair surveyed a triangular pit in the shoulder of one of the horn-blowers. "Be–"

"Crap, someone's moving!" Abigail pointed at a man underneath one of the oxen. He stirred at the noise, groaning and moaning beneath his breath. She knelt next to his head, her hand already on his temple. "Shush, we're here now. You're safe."

"Grey Wardens?" he whispered, his breathing labored. He coughed. "Darkspawn. . . attacked us. Ambush."

"Where does it hurt?" she asked, rubbing his head.

"My ribs–ung! I think. . . think they're broken."

"Quickly, you three get this ox off of him," she said, turning to Alistair and the others. As one, they lifted the dead animal off the man and Alistair had to steel himself against his cries of pain. Abigail was whispering something underneath her breath, her hand resting on the poor man's chest. Alistair watched, fascinated, as she performed the healing ritual. He noticed a particularly bloody gash on his leg and dropped down to bandage it with a poultice and supplies in his pack.

The man coughed experimentally a few times and gripped her hand with his. "Maker bless you."

"And may Andraste lend you her courage," she replied. She glanced up at Alistair. "Shouldn't we bring him back to camp?"

"No need," said the wounded soldier. He grunted as he stood, but his breathing was better and he wasn't as wobbly. "I can make it back on my own now. I hope you survive this night. Maker knows we need more Grey Wardens. . ."

He went along, limping profusely as he did, and Alistair watched him go. "Darkspawn," muttered Ser Jory. "If they could ambush and kill a force like this, without our knowing–"

"Relax," said Alistair, holding up a hand. He put on his best, smoothest voice. "All Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn, and I won't let anything happen to you."

"You hear that, ser knight?" Daveth asked cheerfully. "So if we die, at least we'll be warned about it first."

"Keep your head in the game," said Abigail. "We have a mission–we can either talk about it or do it. Alistair–lead on."


	2. Joining

_**In which Abigail meets Morrigan and her mother, Teresa readies to leave her home for the first time, and the Joining Ritual takes place**_

_When she drank the blood on the third night of both of our escapes from the Circle, I think. . . I think I felt it. It was as if some hand had reached out to me in my prison, clutching my heart and whispering mean things in my sleep. I dreamt I was talking to her, and she me, and she was promising that she would kill me the next time we met. She was so real that I awoke quite suddenly in my damp tent, courtesy of the Teryn Loghain, and I sat there for the remainder of the night just staring at the picture I stole from her sketchbook, remembering the good times we had and how much of a jerk I was. I remembered her face, I remembered how I, in my own panic, used part of her own life force to secure my own escape._

_I swear I am not crazy. As I stared at this picture, immersed in my own self-loathing, I felt as if something was wrong. Something had happened, something terrible, and she was in the middle. Then I felt the dullest pain in my shin and my shoulder. As I lifted the cloth I saw that I had acquired two purple bruises the size of two sovereigns, and that the rest of my body was covered in various shades of black, grey, and blue. The next morning they were gone, but a heaviness was on my heart. Somehow I knew something had gone wrong at Ostagar, and by this time I was sure that if she were dead I would know._

_What was this bond between us? I wondered about it for quite some time. The answer was not what I was expecting._

* * *

Alistair slipped behind a boulder, sword out and ready, heart beating loudly in his chest. Daveth hit the stone right next to him, back pressed against the unyielding rock as he took a breather from the fray. "What the _hell_ is _that?_ What, they have their own _mages_ now?" he sputtered.

Ignoring him, Alistair called out to Abigail, who had taken refuge behind a ruined wall. "Kill the Emissary!"

She probably didn't even know what that was, but she got the gist of it. They were nearing the Grey Warden fortress, exhausted from the fighting that had taken place en route, and until then they'd been lucky in terms of magical attack from the darkspawn. The entrance to the fortress was _right there,_ and, within it, hopefully lay the Grey Warden treaties he was tasked to get. Abigail closed her eyes, steadying her breathing, and Alistair could almost see the concentration she was struggling to obtain to cast a spell. Next to her, Ser Jory was down, either unconscious or dead.

_She's never fought before,_ Alistair realized. _She's going on adrenaline alone._

Well, that was just great.

"Hurry _up_, Abby!"

A Hurlock appeared around the corner then, yelling at him, and Alistair plunged his sword into its gut, leaning away from its thrust. Its blood splashed on his arm, burning like a corrosive agent, and he rubbed it against the ground as best as he could to get the pain to go away. Daveth turned around on the other side, no more than a whisper of breath in his ears, and Alistair saw, out of the corner of his eye, a Genlock go down.

He glanced back at Abigail, breathing hard. She gripped the knife in her hand, whispering something under her breath. He felt his heart clench tightly in his chest as three Genlock ran for her, having figured out her usefulness to the party. The knife glowed white-hot in her hand for a space of seconds, and then she threw out her left hand at the approaching attackers. They slowed, comical imitations of runners, and with her other hand she cut their throats. They fell to the ground and she nearly did, too. "A moment!" she called, leaning against the wall.

"Sure, take all the time in the world," Alistair mumbled, ducking back under cover as a magical missile hit the rock behind him. "Emissary out to get us, well, that's okay. We got it under control. . ."

"Well, you have to admit," Daveth panted. "We wouldn't be anywhere without magic."

"Neither would _they_."

"Oh, yeah. Where's her staff?"

Abigail leaned out of cover and hit the Emissary with another dry-ice spell. He fell to the floor, dead from magical cold-burns, and suddenly the tide of the battle changed. Alistair charged for the archers, yelling a battle-cry, with Daveth right behind him. Smacking the left-most one in the face, he gutted the other and Daveth ducked a knife-thrust to the head. Alistair beheaded him and killed the one he smacked. Normalcy returned.

And they were right in front of the Grey Warden fort. Alistair sighed, sweating profusely despite the weather, and glanced back for Abigail and Ser Jory. She was bent over Ser Jory, bags underneath her eyes and her limbs shaking from the aftermath of adrenaline, just as he was. She sung a bit in a language unfamiliar to him, pressing her hand over Ser Jory's head, and his eyes opened. She asked him a few questions in a voice too low to be heard, then helped him up. Daveth clapped.

"You all right?" Alistair asked the knight.

"Yes, thank you," he said, holding his head. The dried blood was still there, but the gash was partway healed. He glanced at the destruction. "So we won? Great. Let's get this over with."

"When climbing a mountain, the descent is normally the dangerous part of all," Abigail warned him.

Alistair led them into the circular lookout post, glancing around at the stunning architecture. It was built entirely out of stone that matched that of Ostagar. Weeds grew between cracks, debris of the topmost level lay on the ground for all to see, and the stairs leading upwards looked as though an ogre had taken a hammer on them. "Nice place. Has that 'destroyed beauty' feel to it, eh?"

"Here's the strong-box," said Daveth, jogging over to a smashed-looking container in the corner, hidden beneath the white stone. His shoulders dropped. "They–"

He glanced up, and all words left him. Alistair followed his glance and scowled, gripping his sword even tighter. A woman, lithe and beautiful, dressed in clothes that bespoke of heathen heritage, stood there, graceful and unsympathetic. Her black hair, so dark that the highlights shone with blue, was pulled into an elaborate bun behind her head; her eyes, yellow and cunning, seemed to hold him there, promising him either a most painful and horrific death or the best sexual experience on his life. A staff, black as her shadowy hair, was in her hand. She was the epitome of destruction, an image of the forest itself–

–and then the enchantment broke, and she was still as ivory beautiful, and still as deadly, but nowhere near as petrifying.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder?" she asked, and her voice was no less as beautiful as her person. _Step_. "A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned?" She reached the end of the staircase and crossed her arms, judge, jury, and executioner. "Or merely an intruder, coming into these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine in search of easy prey? What say you? Scavenger, or intruder?"

"We are neither," said Abigail, stepping foreword. Alistair walked behind her, wary. "The Grey Wardens once owned this tower."

"Ah, but the Grey Wardens own this tower no longer, you see," said she, a small smile on her purple lips. "The wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse." She began to walk, passing them all with grace that seemed unnatural. They let her pass uncontested, holding their collective breath, and she stepped on a rock behind the strongbox. Without turning around she continued to speak. "I have watched your progress for some time. 'Where do they go?' I wondered. '_Why_. . . are they here?' And now you disturb ashes who have not been touched in so long. . . why is that, I wonder?"

"Don't answer her," Alistair warned, his voice low and commanding. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

She actually laughed. "You fear barbarians will _swoop_ down upon you?"

"Yes," he muttered, drawing it out. "Swooping is _bad._"

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is." Daveth took a step back, his tanned face pale in the weak light. "She'll turn us all to toads!"

"'Witch of the Wilds?'" she echoed. "Such idle fantasies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" She looked at Abigail. "You there. Women do not threaten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine."

Alistair reached out to grab her arm, but she stepped past him until she was at the head of the group. "I am Abigail."

"And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish," said she, gesturing to her chest. "Shall I try to guess your purpose? You sought something in that box, something that is here no longer?" Once again, she crossed her arms.

"'Here no longer?'" Alistair intoned. "You stole them, didn't you? You're some kind of. . ." He floundered for words. "Sneaky, witch-thief!"

"Very eloquent," she said. "But tell me, how does one steal from dead men?"

"Very easily, it seems," said Alistair. "Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them."

She narrowed her eyes. "I will _not,_ because it 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing no longer if you wish, but I am not threatened."

"Can you tell us who stole them?" Abigail persisted.

She chuckled. "'twas my mother, in fact."

"Can you take us to her?" asked Abigail.

"Ah, now there is a sensible request," she replied, inclining her head in respect. "I like you."

"Be careful," Alistair muttered to his companion. "First it's 'I like you' and then zap–frog time."

"She'll put us all in the pot, she will," Daveth whispered.

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it will be a nice change," Ser Jory countered.

"Follow me, then, if it pleases you," Morrigan said, and turned around.

Alistair glanced around, gauging the others' reactions, but Abigail was already following, unarmed, most of her mana depleted, without waiting for them. Ser Jory hesitated only for a single second, then followed close behind as chivalry and the cold overwhelmed common sense. Alistair motioned for Daveth to join him and they took up the rear, the latter shaking so much that Alistair could see his hands actually trembling on his weapon.

Alistair had no idea where they went, only that at some point in the journey he became confused and lost all sense of direction. Daveth stumbled and Ser Jory actually stopped to take a look around, licking his lips in frustration. Abigail and Morrigan locked glances, and the latter smiled. "You are protected by magical influence–'tis not surprising. Tell me, why do you not carry a staff as all sane mages do?"

"It's not a choice I made myself," Abigail said evenly.

"To separate a mage from her staff, though. . . I admit, I'm curious: did you give it up? A life or death situation, perhaps? A Grey Warden ferrying three want-to-be heroes into the roots of the Korcari Wilds to kill darkspawn, and the mage wears the garb of the Circle, but no _staff._ Tell me, did your fabled leader invoke the Right of Conscription?"

Alistair started at the name and glared at the witch with newfound confusion. "How do you know about _that?_"

"Just because I live in the forest does not mean I am oblivious to the goings-on outside of my home," Morrigan said waspishly.

"I was Conscripted," said Abigail, no trace of emotion in her voice. It was like she'd locked herself down, battling whatever deeply-held feeling within her chest with an impassive stare. "But it matters not. The darkspawn are the immediate threat, no? Can you sense them, as Grey Wardens can?"

Morrigan chuckled, which wasn't an answer, leading them on with a wave of her hand. There was smoke curling up from a small chimney in the distance, such a strange setting in this woodland atmosphere that Alistair knew right away that this home was her mother's. The green woodland suddenly opened, revealing a swampy field in which housed a small hovel built out of wood, bricks, and what looked like mud. It was a cozy little place and wouldn't have looked out-of-style in any of the smaller, more rural villages Alistair had been to over the years. An old, wizened woman wearing a high-necked grey smock waited for them at the front door, her arms crossed. Her face was pale and white, her hair lank and grey, and her eyes sunken like a fish–in short, she looked everything that Morrigan _didn't._ Alistair tried to decide which one looked the more imposing, swamp-witch type, but he was coming up blank.

"Mother," Morrigan greeted. "I bring you these Grey Wardens, who–"

"I have eyes, girl, I can see them," the other snapped. Her pale, gray face was drawn into a tight-lipped mockery of her daughter's, prideful and arrogant of her own powers. Alistair was immediately wary. Something here, something, just wasn't right. "Mmm, much as I expected."

"Are we supposed to believe you were actually expecting us?" Alistair asked shrewdly.

"Bah! You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide. . . either way, one's a fool."

"She's a Witch, I tell you!" Daveth whispered hurriedly. "We shouldn't even be talking to her."

"Quiet, Daveth," Ser Jory snapped. "If she's really a Witch, do you want to make her mad?"

"There is a smart lad." Her voice didn't sound congratulatory, merely bemused. "Sadly irrelevant the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will. So, you wander into the forests expecting to find those treaties, did you? Bah, if they were so important you might have given them more than a fickle thought on the eve of battle.

"Do you men have no other minds of your own? Witch of the Wilds, indeed, hah! So I know a few simple spells. Just because I do not wish to be ruled underneath your Chantry does not mean I'll kill you all. Not _all_ mages are as insane as you give them credit for." She jerked her head in Abigail's direction. "But that all matters on perspective, isn't that right, girl? What do you think?"

"I think you're much more dangerous than you give yourself credit for," said Abigail respectfully. "But I know enough to freely admit that I don't know what to believe about you or your daughter."

"Ah, a bright one. These men could take some lessons from you, I think."

Abigail inclined her head in thanks, to Alistair's shock. _Oh, wonderful, next thing you know they'll be painting each others fingernails._ "You have the Grey Warden documents," he said in commanding voice. "They are to be returned–"

"You're acting as if I _stole_ them!" she cried, aghast. "I saved them, you poor, foolish Templar. The seals were already wearing off when I found them and I preserved them to the best of my power."

"You–" He stopped, his mouth slightly open and hanging like an idiot's. "You _saved_ them?"

"And why not?" she asked, adjusting her cuff. "Without these treaties Ferelden would be ruined in the next Blight–oh yes, I know about the Blight. I feel it in my bones." She fished some papers out of a small, waterproof bag around her shoulder and handed them to Abigail. "Here, they're all in order. Just do me a favor and tell that fool King of yours that the threat is bigger than they realize."

Abigail took them gingerly, as if they were to disintegrate at her very touch, and handed them to Alistair, who reviewed them. "Everything. . . everything is really in order," he said, surprised. "Why would you help us?"

"Have you looked around? Have you seen the darkspawn in this forest? If they are allowed to get purchase then everything, including I, will be swept up in its Taint! Take these, and don't forget that warning."

Morrigan smiled, the gesture parting her purple-tinted lips. "Time for you to go, then."

"Be polite, child," the old woman admonished. "These are your guests."

Morrigan sighed. "Very well," she muttered. "I'll show you out of the forest. Follow me, then. . ."

"And you, girl," said the woman, coming to stand uncomfortably close to Abigail. Alistair could see the wrinkles like crevasses in her skin, the way her eyes, sunken and hollow, seemed to peer out of her skull like an inferno about to be released. "If you see the one who left you there, trapped and defenseless, do not kill them too quickly."

Something seemed to harden in Abigail's eyes, and she nodded. "That I will not," she promised, and Alistair believed her.

"Go, then." The old woman stepped back until she was by the door leading into the house. "Hurry home, Morrigan, if the darkspawn catch our scent then I won't be able to keep up the protective borders alone."

"Yes, Mother."

* * *

**Redcliff, yesterday **

She glanced up at the sky, squinting in the dim, but still bright, sunlight poking through the rapidly-thickening clouds. "It's going to sto–orm," she muttered in a singsong voice, adjusting her grip on the bag of tools and groceries in her arms. "Monkies are going to rain from the sky–y!"

Her companion, a small boy around eight or so, laughed in delight at the joke. "And they'll eat us all!" he crowed, cackling. In his hands he held the teenage woman's walking stick, which was taller than he was. At first glance the stick appeared to be normal, just a dark red cedar wood that was carefully polished each night, but at the bottom, where none but the most nosy could see, engraved magical runes were carved upon the surface.

"You don't _eat_ monkies, silly!" she cried, aghast. Her white hair had the texture of candyfloss and hung past her shoulders, which were very muscular. Playful, twinkling blue eyes poked out from underneath her brow, which was, for some reason, darker than her hair color. They lost their playfulness for a second as she glanced up at the large windmill towering over the city below and caught the figure of the Knight-Commander in his shining Templar armor in conversation with another. Almost unconsciously, she moved closer to the boy and the staff, shielding them both with her shadow. "Come on, Bevin-turtle, open the door for me."

Bevin hastened to obey, knocking once on the door leading into the smithy and opening it wide enough for Teresa, for that was who she was, to slip through. "We're back!" she called, inhaling the scent of wood, metal, and fire. She dumped her bags on the table and went to feed one of the forges with another heaping of coal.

Owen the Blacksmith poked his head from behind a door, sweating profusely in the heat. "You get everything?"

"Yup, everything!" Teresa promised, grinning. She handed him another, smaller bag. "Your change."

"Keep it," he grumped, limping over to take a look at her items. He perused them with a critical eye, then nodded. "Valena is coming home for dinner later," he said, taking out the vegetables with his big, meaty hands. "Care to come back later and help me cook?"

"Umm. . ." Teresa glanced at Bevin and pulled him away from the forge before he could hurt himself. Scolding him with a look, she said, "If she was comin' in a week or two, I would, but I'm going to Loathering."

"What?" Bevin cried. "What for?"

"In the rain?" Owen asked. "Why don't you wait a while, 'till the sky decides to be nice?"

Teresa shrugged. "The sooner I get it done the sooner I'll be back," she said. "It's the only place I know of to buy the honey I need to make my desserts."

"We'll live without your brownies, Resa," he said complacently. "I don't need my assistant going on the road alone just for some honey. Stay here, tend to the hives if you need it that badly."

Teresa rolled her eyes. "This is the only time that the Circle brings out their export stuff for sale this month," she said, as if it should be obvious. "And they have the best."

"Didn't _you_ use to live in Loathering, Owen?" Bevin asked, placing Teresa's staff on the table. She gripped it in one hand and pulled it towards her, mostly just to feel the reassuring rub of the grain against her fingers.

"That was Murdock," Owen said, naming the mayor of Redcliffe. He dipped his head to separate some of the smithy tools she'd acquired for him, chuckled in pleasure, and limped over towards the large fire. "Yeah, that old boy's been everywhere, I think–'cept the Circle, I bet. And if you asked him about it, he'd say the closest he's ever gotten to the place is Lake Calenhad. Good to know those good-for-nothing mages are getting off their bums and helping us out. How the hell did you know about that, Resa?"

"I have my sources," she said mysteriously, accentuating it with an evil giggle.

"Well, you make some good food, so I won't hold you back. Do you have to go alone?"

"I'll come!" Bevin volunteered. "Really, really, I don't mind! I want to see Loathering!"

"It's so _boring _there," Teresa said, rolling her eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah!"

"Fine, fine, run off to Kaitlyn and ask her for permission."

Bevin dashed out the door, lending an open stream of fresh air in for a moment before it closed behind him. Owen stood up, cracking his back, and turned to regard her. "You know that boy isn't going to get permission."

"Exactly." She winked and turned to follow her charge out. "See you later, I need to get ready." She took the staff and left, waving at him as she did so, and crossed over to the small dock built opposite the Chantry which held her house. Fooling the Templars was too easy and too fun, but she relished walking by that damn church as an apostate, a marked woman, and them being none the wiser. A year ago they might have been suspicious, but she'd hidden her staff and stayed close enough to it until she realized that there were no mages within the town. Now she only brought it out when Bevin or one of the other townchildren she babysitted would ask for it so they could imitate sword fights or pretend they were adventurers.

To the people of Redcliffe, Teresa was just a woman who showed up out of nowhere, desperate for a meal and some work, and nobody thought the wiser. She giggled every time she saw the wanted posters of her on the Chantry Board. A picture supposedly resembling her had been posted and she could tell Abigail had no hand in drawing it. Her hair had been short and brown then, frizzy, and the description had been totally _off._ Now she was a simple woman making her living by doing whatever came her way, from running errands, minding the children, or even making yummy deserts for birthdays or celebrations.

Ah, the sweet drink of freedom!

And now she would wait, wait, and wait until her friends joined her. Jowan and Abigail would gawk at how she was set up and then they would travel, travel, _travel!_ To Orzammar, to Orlais even! They would see every speck of land, everything availible, and they would all do it together.

After escaping the Circle only a short two years ago, Teresa had led the Templars on a great chase towards the West. It was very funny when she crossed the Orlesian border, hopped into an alchemy shop set up in one of the small border-towns, and dipped her hair into a special mixture that turned it a bright, bright white. She dressed in a farmer's smock and even–she always laughed as she remembered this part–gave the Templar directions as to which way the nearby town of Delphaeu was.

Then she left, singing about monkies, fire, and death at the top of her voice as she retraced, at a much slower pace, the path in which she'd trodden during her escape. After a quick stop in Loathering to buy as many supplies as she could carry on her back, Teresa disappeared towards Redcliffe. The entire chase lasted a year, but it was _worth it._

She still felt slight pangs for home sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she would wish that there were an entire dormitory of girls sharing her house just so she wouldn't be alone any more. 'Resa' was all fine and dandy, but she learned very quickly that freedom and secrecy comes with a price, and she was paying it. The children, Owen, and however many others that presided in the village couldn't fill the hole in her heart that had been filled previously by friends of great renown.

She, Abigail, and Jowan were seventeen. Right now they might be taking their Harrowings, or maybe next year, or, at the latest, next year. If they never showed, well, then, she'd just go look for them herself. . . somehow. It wasn't like she could just go walk into the Tower and say, "Hey, _guuuuys_, what is _up?_ I'm _waiting._"

She was a bit dense, but she wasn't that dense, no way!

She hummed a happy song as she gathered up her belongings for the trip, weaving back and forth to the music conjured out of her own imagination. She placed Abigail's sketchbook, the one she'd given her along with the staff she nicked from Irving, into her bag as well. After donning a thick cloak over her 'adventuring clothes' she decided to take off, whistling under her breath as she locked the door to her home.

She wasn't afraid of robbers breaking into her home, for all her money was with her. There weren't even any spellbooks or any other sign of magical activity in there. All was right with the world.

She dropped in to say bye-bye to Bevin, who hadn't been given permission to go, and walked up the tall, mountainous landscapes that led her up the cliff overlooking the village, waving cheerfully at the Knight-Commander as she passed them.

On the other side of the waterfall, across the landbridge, a home sat, dusty and evicted. She felt bad, worse than she had in a long time, as she remembered the ones who had lived there. Sighing, she reached into her pocket and took out a necklace, one of many bearing the same design, and placed it on the ground near the side of the house, obscured by a tree. It bore a faint magical signature, nothing that even Irving would raise his eyebrows at, but, with a tricky enchantment, she'd warped the magics around it to respond only to the presence of either herself or her friends. It was a tailsman, a mark, something that Teresa had left at Loathering also. Just in case.

Humming merrily, her magical staff in hand, Teresa started down the road, completely oblivious to the whole wide world.

Ah, but freedom was sweet.

* * *

**Ostagar (present day)**

It was nightfall when Morrigan back to the camp, and Abigail was tired. She could hardly believe there was a battle in a few hours, and then she could hardly believed that she was hardly surprised by the appearance of the two strange women in the center of the Korcari Wilds. Her thin vial of darkspawn blood seemed to burn in her mind, and she wanted rid of it as soon as she was able. It reminded her too much of the past she was going to erase.

_To become a Grey Warden,_ she thought, _you must let go of the anger that held you firm in your old life. To become a Grey Warden, you have to get your priorities in order, and the one highest in this world, right now, is the complete and total eradication of the darkspawn. After that. . . I just don't know._

She could see Duncan waiting for them by the fire, reading a small book that had been in his possession ever since they'd left the Circle. Alistair made to go for him, as did the others, but she told them to wait and crossed over to the dog pens where she'd been earlier. Alistair muttered something that she didn't hear, and she put a hand in one of her deep pockets to fish out the small, white fower with the blood-red center she'd spied on their journey. She placed it in the palm of the kennel owner. "That's for you," she said breathlessly, glancing at the sick mabari warhound she'd muzzled hours ago. "Is it enough? I could only find one."

The Kennel Master was shocked, though he tried not to show it. He went off immediately to make the salve and Abigail bent next to the fence, watching him sadly. "I had a dog once," she whispered, too low for Alistair, who had come up behind her, to hear. The mabari, a pure-black hound with deep yellow eyes, glanced at her sadly from where he lay on the ground, too sick to move. She took a few pieces of salted meat from her pouch and carefully undid the muzzle, to Alistair's shock, and fed him the meat. She replaced it as gently as possible, and something passed between the two that was more than a simple look; she felt a sudden, overwhelming love for the mabari, and wished she could go in there and pet it until he was better and the battle was over.

He groaned a little bit in response, nuzzling close enough so she could place her hand on his fur. "Good boy," she murmured, smiling. "You're such a good boy."

"He's in rough shape," Alistair said.. "But a lot more will be if we don't proceed with the Joining as fast as possible." He held out a hand to help her stand and she ignored it. "You really like dogs, don't you?" She didn't answer that, either.

She got to her feet by herself and, throwing one last glance at the sad warhound, led the way back to Duncan's haunt. He was watching her, an inscrutable expression on his face, and she handed him the darkspawn blood. For the first time she noticed that all of the small vials of blood bore different designs on the top–a silver dragon, a green pine, and a red Chantry symbol. Alistair handed him the documents. "They're all in order–I checked," said he. "But. . ."

He glanced at Abigail, who felt her back stiffen in response. "We met two women in the Korcari Wilds," she said, taking the lead. "They had. . . preserved the documents for us."

"I think they were apostates," said Alistair uneasily.

Duncan frowned at both of them. "Alistair, I know your previous duties bring you into conflict with this," he said gently, "but it's not our problem now." He scanned the papers with a practiced eye. "They'll hold up, and that's what matters. I'll have Jaing run additional tests after the battle if we survive."

Alistair shifted uneasily. "Yes, Duncan."

"Are you going to tell us what the Joining is about now?" Daveth asked.

"I will not lie–the Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree you pay your price now rather than later." He sounded almost apologetic.

"I've come this far," Abigail said softly, her voice no more than a soft murmur in the gentle night wind. "I will see this through."

"As will I," said Daveth.

"I agree," Ser Jory said, nodding. "Let's just get this over with."

"The Circle mages have been preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately." And the old Duncan was back to business. Abigail wondered what he was like underneath it all, then berated herself for it. _No personal feelings. Get in, get the job done, go forget it all. _"Alistair, you know where to lead them. I shall be there soon."

"Yes, Duncan. Come on, follow me."

And they followed him. Abigail could feel her heart beating in her chest, pounding harder than ever, sending adrenaline thundering through her system. She felt as though somebody had woken her up, as if her head had suddenly broke the crest of a fog that bound her to the earth. Everything seemed to move fast and slow, brightly colored, every detail sharp in her mind.

It was actually happening.

There was a flash of red in her peripheral vision, a stern, proud face, and she looked around to meet the brown eyes of Wynne, who stood by tree with her arms crossed, watching. Her posture held none of the warmth Abigail had become accustomed to, and her eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness with a sparkle. Time seemed to slow. Wynne's lips pursed together in disappointment and she turned away, shaking her head.

Beneath the trepidation Abigail felt a stirring of anger. Who was she, Wynne, to judge her? _I'll wipe that smile off of her face, I will. She wasn't there, she has no right. . . no right. . ._

The moon shone silver-bright over the crest of the Korcari Wilds, beckoning down to them with a somber grey light that illuminated the stone facades with light not seen in Kinloch Hold. Alistair waited impatiently for Duncan at the top of the stone stairs where she'd met him, pacing a little bit away from the group as he thought over things, or perhaps he was getting ready for the coming battle. Abigail was in a strange world of swords, soldiers, and darkspawn, and so of course had no idea what was right and proper and what was not.

Ser Jory spoke her thoughts, saying, "The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it."

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth asked.

"Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?"

"_Maybe_ it's tradition–_maybe_ they're trying to annoy you."

_I hope it's nothing like the Harrowing,_ Abigail thought, her mind brought back to the terror she'd experienced at the hands of the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter. Instead of saying it aloud, though, she said, "I swear I'm the bravest one here–" _liar _"–and I'm a woman."

"I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. . ." Ser Jory glanced at a scuff mark on the stone below him. "If they had warned me beforehand. . . it just doesn't seem fair."

"Would you have come if they warned you?" Daveth asked. "Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?"

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if it meant an end to the Blight."

Abigail turned away, forcing herself to relax with a breathing excersize. The tight ball of icy-hot fear in her chest only seemed to solidify. The suspense was frightening. "Will you both shut up?" she asked, her voice low and controlled.

"The Grey Wardens have saved the world from the darkspawn before," Daveth pointed out. "I'd say they know better than anybody else about what it takes." He turned to Ser Jory. "You saw those darkspawn tonight, ser knight. Wouldn't you die to protect your pretty wife from them?"

"I. . ."

"Maybe you'll die. Maybe we'll all die. But if nobody stops the darkspawn, we're dead for sure."

"I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade," he said stiffly.

"I have," Abigail muttered. Alistair's pacing paused for the slightest of seconds, then continued again.

It felt like the longest wait in her life, during which she'd attempted to find reasons about why she wanted to live, when it was actually only about five minutes before Duncan joined them again, looking so solemn and serious that she felt the chill air drop by a few more degrees. He carried a silver chalice in his hands. "At least we come to the Joining," he said, sweeping past them in a slow, formal way. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the edge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their Taint."

Abigail was rooted to the spot, her fingers shaking, and she rubbed the space between her eyebrows to hide the look of horror on her face. "We–we're going to drink the blood. . . of those creatures?" Ser Jory asked, disbelief etched in his tone.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. _This _is the source of our power–and our victory."

Abigail wondered what fool notion possessed the first of the Wardens to drink the blood. Blood magic, perhaps? Or were they insane? She felt decidedly sick.

"Those who survive the Joining," Alistair was saying, "become immune to the Taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon."

". . .those who survive?" Abigail asked, her voice muffled by her arm.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining," Duncan said softly, "but those words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?"

A slight pause. Abigail took her hands away from her face and stared at Alistair with horrified, but determined, eyes. "Join us, brothers and sisters," he said, bowing his head as if in prayer. "Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry out the duties that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you."

Duncan took the chalice in hand, and she saw it was filled, nearly to the brim, with a black, tar-like substance she recognized automatically. "Daveth." Duncan's voice was a mere sigh in the wind. "Step foreword."

Daveth, for all of his former boasting, was nervous. He grabbed it, his knuckles white, and Abigail could feel her hear beginning to take off like a hummingbird in flight. Closing his eyes and steeling himself, he took a long draught and handed it back to Duncan, who stepped back. One second passed, then two, and Abigail knew in her heart something was wrong–

He stumbled backwards, panting, one hand held on his head as if he had a pounding headache. Grunting in sudden pain, he fell to one knee. The grunt became a full-fledged cry that was immediately garbled by the acid rising in his stomach, and black vomit, black as sin, dribbled down his leather armor. "I am sorry, Daveth," Duncan whispered. Daveth moaned one more time and lay still, face-first in his own vomit. She knew at once he was dead. Her eyes filled with tears.

Duncan stepped over his body, holding out the chalice. "Step foreword, Jory."

Ser Jory was shaking his head, sweating profusely. He backed away from the chalice and Daveth's body as if they were cursed. "No–I have a wife. . . and a child. Had I known–"

"There is no turning back."

"No–no, you ask too much–there is no glory in this."

Duncan set the chalice down, but he still advanced. Ser Jory took out his sword, panting and trembling, and Duncan responded in kind. It was too quick, too skillful for her to see properly, but the sound of Duncan's long, elven weapon sliding into his body like a key into a lock would forever haunt her dreams. "I am sorry," he whispered again. The sword fell from Ser Jory's lifeless hand, and his body crumbled soon afterwords.

Abigail was completely silent, staring wide-eyed at Ser Jory's corpse, then at Daveth's, then at the chalice. She found herself thinking of the Circle, of Jowan, of teresa, of all of the tiny little things and reasons why she wanted to stay alive–

–and then she remembered Wynne's disappointment, how, back at the Circle, Irving and the Templars attacked her, how Jowan betrayed her, how she felt as she lay there, covered in her own blood that her best friend in the world had used as a substitute for his negligible mana. . .

She remembered all of this, and got angry. She wanted to die, to get away from the feeling in her chest, to just go, go, go, and fall asleep, wake up somewhere safe, warm, and happy, surrounded by good friends who would die for her, and she for them.

Looking at the chalice, she made her decision. She took it, horror no longer on her face, no longer bothered by the bodies surrounding her, and took the biggest damn sip because she was _not_ afraid any more, and what would happen would happen and she'd be a good girl, a real good girl if she made it, and afterwards she would burn down the Circle, burn it to the ground, and hold Jowan's head beneath the waters of Lake Calenhad until, finally, he stopped moving.

Her stomach recoiled at the taste, but she drank anyway, unaware of Duncan's words. She refused to vomit and drank it, drank it _all_, until she felt, inexplicably, the blood harden in her stomach, reinforcing the outer edges with a black, black Taint. It completely burned away the food in her system, eating it up like it was hungry for energy, and she _felt it_ and she hated it. She was going to die, she knew it, she knew it–

Jowan's face focused itself in her mind. His rejection, his innocent promises, and she felt a lifeline course from her spirit to her body, anchoring herself into the material plane. How she felt it she didn't know, but she was there, there, there, not dead, but in agony, hurting, but willing to bear it if it meant she could see Jowan one last time again and kill him slowly, ever so slowly. . .

And then, somewhere in her mind, a vision more real than life itself, she felt a black _presence_ inside of her, roaring a cry that chilled her blood. Abruptly it vanished, as did the pain, and she realized her eyes were closed and she was on the ground, laying on the pavement as the other two bodies were.

But she wasn't dead.

She wasn't _dead._

She opened her eyes and looked up into the faces of Alistair and Duncan, both bent over her. Duncan was smiling.


	3. Tower of Ishall

**In which the two Wardens defend the Tower of Ishall and are betrayed by Teryn Loghain**

**Ostagar**

The Tower of Ishall loomed above her, indomitable and forbidding in the dark and stormy night. Abigail shivered delicately, soaked to the bone and covered in the black blood of enemies vanquished. Alistair was beside her, panting, and the two guards (she still didn't know their names) were whispering furiously to each other behind her back. If she cared she would have paid attention to their words, but right now she _didn't_, because she could hear the battle even from here and it was enough to frighten her into a state of calm she'd experienced only once before–in the Harrowing.

Alistair gradually recovered his breath. "Abby?"

She resisted the urge to hit him for using a nickname that no longer had meaning. She gripped a sword in her hand, well aware that she wouldn't be able to use it for anything more than show, and wished for a warm fire. They stood at the foot of the Tower of Ishall, named after the Archon in charge of this old fortress, and Abigail couldn't help but think that the entire thing looked a lot like the home she'd just escaped. . . the Circle Tower.

After her Joining and the subsequent conversations there after, Abigail had been called down to join the King Cailan, tight-lipped Teryn Loghain, Uldred and Wynne (both whom refused to acknowledge her presence), a swarthy-looking man named Ryul, and a muscular man by the name of Hull. While the King was in charge, it was as Alistair said, about him knowing "who held the kettle." Teryn Loghain was the adamant tactician, easily aggravated by King Cailan's searches for glory, and it was to him most of the others looked to. They were all the leaders of their specified posts respectively: the Circle mages (who would play a pivotal role in the rear of the army, protected by soldiers); the footmen with their mabari hounds; and the archers on the high ground.

It was King Cailan's request that Duncan ride with him in the vanguard with the other Wardens, and just when Abigail began to attain a handle on the situation they were given the order to ascend the Tower of Ishall on the other side of the camp as the battle started and light the beacon so Loghain's men could sweep through in a counter-charge at Duncan's signal.

"The King asked us to do it," she muttered later, when it was just the two of them and Duncan alone around the fire. "We prolly should."

"Mmmhmm. Yeah. Fine. But just so you know, if the King asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, that's where I'll draw the line–darkspawn or no."

She'd actually laughed. "I'd like to see that."

He sighed. "For you. . . maybe." Then he added, almost wistfully, "But it'd have to be a pretty dress."

Duncan sighed.

They took off as soon as they'd had a bite to eat. Abigail was _ravenous_ and with, apparently, good reason. Alistair promised to explain the finer aspects of being a Grey Warden later on, but as they ate he said that she better eat his meal, too, just to be on the safe side. She ate enough for two grown men, which surprised her, and she was still hungry!

Duncan and Alistair hugged one last time, exchanging words she couldn't hear, and then Duncan came over and clasped her arm. His eyes were dark, brooding. "Listen to Alistair," he advised her in a voice low enough not to be heard by the others. "He has all of our best interests in heart."

"I understand, ser."

"And do not dwell on what you cannot change–move foreword and have a future instead of a past."

She found she had to look away, a dark pain in her heart. "That is. . . sound advice."

He squeezed her arm just once more–and then he was gone, joining the ranks of soldiers, archers, and mages filing out into their ranks. She watched him go, feeling like a fool, and almost put a hand on Alistair's shoulder to comfort him. She remembered with a jerk that he wasn't Jowan, that nobody could take the place of her best-friend-turned-enemy, and just folded her hands together.

They set off for the Tower of Ishall as the battle started. There was a brief fright as a missile impacted the wall, sheering a crater directly next to her. She was thrown to the ground and would have rolled off of the high wall had she not gripped at the stone and heaved herself up. They'd ran for it, Alistair being faster than herself, and were hit with their first, heart-stopping piece of news. . . two of Loghain's guards ran for them, crying out that the Tower had fallen to the darkspawn somehow, and, their might combined, the four of them took out the darkspawn setting a defensive perimeter. Another Emissary was there, a darkspawn's cheap version of a mage, and Abigail used another dry-ice spell to kill him. Instead of taking his staff, however, she took a Genlock's sword and gripped it in her hand, wishing with all of her might that Irving had seen to it to give her a staff, but no, he'd been too angry. . . they'd both had. . .

And now they stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Tower. There was nothing to it–they had to go, right now, lest Ferelden fall to the darkspawn.

"Let's proceed," she said, her voice oddly muffled in the rain. She was freezing, oh so cold, and she was shivering almost convulsively. Alistair took a deep, bracing breath, nodded, and moved foreword to open the large double-doors. She glimpsed at a large room waiting beyond.

They hurried foreword into the dry and one of the tower guards let out a cry of alarm–her hands were wreathed in red flames. She shushed him, saying she needed to warm up, and he just moved to stand next to Alistair, crossing himself. She felt a flair of irritation and snapped, "I could kill you now, if you want! But if you wish to succeed you must trust me, else you're a liability. Do I make myself clear, ser?"

"Crystal," Alistair said, staring at the man. He gave him a warning look, jumping on his heels a bit to rid himself of some water that had accumulated on his thick leather armor, and Abigail concentrated on warming her ice-cold fingers, still shivering. They waited like that for two minutes, allowing themselves to dry, and then Alistair led them onwards towards a great, circular room. Abigail barely got to admire the view before she tripped over a hidden string in front of her. A sudden fear gripped her chest and she threw up an arcane shield by instinct–just in time. Her world exploded in fire, flames, and grease. Her robes singed at the hem where her shield broke. She floundered away with a cry of shock, slipping and sliding on the grease, and watched her three protectors run to fight the darkspawn stationed along the walls–she hadn't seen them. She felt like an idiot.

After dousing the fire with a spell of ice and darkness, Abigail turned her attention towards the Emissary blocking their way into the rooms beyond. He was crying something in a low, gutteral language, his staff beginning to flame with acid-green tongues of death–

she lashed out with her fist, sending a ball of arcane strength towards the Emissary. It pushed him back and he turned towards her, snarling in his strange language, and her skills were put to the test in ways she'd never dreamed before. They battled against each other, but he had the upper hand–a staff. She didn't.

But she was a gifted member of the Circle of Magi, trained in technique and perseverance. He wasn't.

Just as she thought she was about to win, another wave of darkspawn entered the room from behind him, and they were archers. Yelling in frustration, Abigail hid behind a wall as their missiles sailed through the air and towards her, some so close that she could have reached out to touch the feathers as they slammed by. "_Alistair_!"

He didn't answer, but there was a lot of fighting going on from the sound of it. Dropped to her knees, she peered out and made a motion with her hands. The Emissary, thinking her dead, dropped lifeless to the ground as her dry-ice charm covered his body.

She was so _tired._ But she pressed on, knowing and knowing that there were more levels to go, more darkspawn, and her men needed her, and Jowan needed to die, and she needed to find Teresa, and she needed to take a torch to the Circle of Magi.

Focused by this newfound optimism, the rest of the battle ended quite suddenly. The grease-fire she'd unwittingly strode into before was now about to go out, and Alistair and the rest of them were on the other side of the barricades, breathing heavily. "Abby?" Alistair called.

"Here!" she stepped out, her knees shaking. With difficulty, she climbed over the barricade.

Alistair beckoned for her to come closer and showed her to a gash on his inside thigh. She hadn't realized he was holding it, white-faced with pain, until he motioned to it. "This hurts, as in _ow,_" he was saying, but she had already dropped to her knees. The two guards made a defensive posture around them as she worked her magic. She felt drained when she had completed, but oddly satisfied. "Thanks. On we go, then."

It only got harder as they pressed on. They were, after all, four against a tower-full of darkspawn, all ready to kill them. Alistair was a monster with his sword and shield, working well with the other two, and she stayed in the rear, guarding herself and–sometimes–her team against arrows, healing their hurts, and occasionally setting a monster on fire, or freezing them, or slowing them. She'd never used so many spells at one time in her life, and by the time they reached the third level, only one more from the top, she was out of mana.

When a mage is out of mana, one of two things can happen–they become so exhausted they cannot move, or they pass out altogether. Having already experianced the latter once, Abigail wasn't eager to do so again. She just sat down for a moment, to the annoyance of the others, and attempted to catch her breath. She caught the look on Alistair's face, how worried he seemed, and got up only after three minutes so they could continue on. She was using the sword she'd taken as a walking stick.

One of the tower guards died on the way there, but she could spare no remorse, not right now. She just forced herself not to look at him, how his ribcage had been smashed by a heavy warhammer, and by doing that she managed to slow an enemy running for Alistair's unprotected midsection, then set two darkspawn in flames.

The drop in her strength was more than she bargained for. Tears mixed with sweat fell down her face, and she was stumbling. Alistair, noticing this, came for her and placed an arm beneath her own. "How's it going?" he asked quietly.

"I'm so sorry. I'm trying. . . I'm trying. . ."

"I know you are," he said seriously, "but you have to try harder, understand? We'll rest at the end."

"Just leave me by a door or something," Abigail muttered, closing her eyes to restore some of her depleted energy. "I'll take those bastards out with my ass on the ground if I have to."

Alistair barked a laugh. "That would be a sight. You could jump up and say 'boo!'"

"'s crossed my mind," she confided.

True to his word, though, at the next sign of confrontation he tucked her away in the doorway and went off to fight, using his shield to block the arrows fired from the archers. She concentrated on strengthening a magical barrier around the other soldier instead, the one who feared her, and the arrows bounced harmlessly off. Each projectile fatigued her more than the last, but she was saving him from quick and painful deaths, so she was happy. . . at least a bit. She was really tired, actually. . .

_I need to practice more. I need a staff. I can't go on like this._

She gestured with a hand, lighting a small fire within the robes of the three archers, which cost almost nothing, and she couldn't help but laugh and laugh and laugh as they ran around, trying to pat themselves out. Even the charred and acrid stench of their burnt flesh didn't stem the hilarity, for she'd smelled worse things in the Circle of Magi before, like Irving's _feet._

She giggled. When Alistair asked what was so funny, she couldn't answer. He looked at her for a moment, his light eyes quizzical, and helped her to her feet. She swayed a little bit but otherwise stayed standing. She closed her eyes, a hand on Alistair's shoulder, and opened her mind to the Fade as she never did, allowing some of its energy to restore her own.

Opening yourself to the Fade was another dangerous task. There was no way she was able to travel into the Fade just by opening herself to it–that would require a lot of lyrium–but it did present an oppertunity for other spellcasters to find her aura. She could feel the spellcasters far below, waging war, and wondered which of the sparks belonged to Wynne, then dismissed the idea. Wynne, after all, had a staff, and you couldn't feel any one person's magical aura without a staff.

Only one more flight of stairs to go. . . Abigail nodded her assent and she trailed behind, an arcane shield covering them all as the strode up into the last room, the most important of all–and stopped dead in their tracks.

Feasting on the flesh of the fallen, a large darkspawn, easily thirteen or fifteen feet, with mottled blue skin and dark horns, mirror-like eyes–an ogre.

"Ah, no," Alistair muttered.

It turned towards them, blood, red blood, dripping from its open maw. It surveyed them, eying them up like a hunter would eye a prize turkey, dropped the piece of unidentifiable meat, and roared.

The sound shook the very foundations.

The tower guard screamed in fear, turned around, and fled the battle. Abigail yelled for him to stay, but soon she was occupied by other, more pressing concerns. The ogre bent over, as if bowing, and charged at them like a bull she'd once seen in Bryce's class. She screamed and ducked out of the way, running as far away as possible in the dark, enclosed circular room.

"Bring it down!" Alistair was yelling. The ogre took a swipe at him, which he deflected with his shield twisted at a slight angle, but them its foot lashed out. The shield flew out of his hand and bounced off of the ceiling, landing some few feet away from its owner. It kicked again and Alistair dove underneath it's legs, slashing upwards with his sword as he went.

Abigail could feel the power building up in her chest, like a cork about to burst with overpressure, and she directed it with a sweep of her hands. An inferno, bigger than she'd ever cast, exploded dead-center and right on target. Flames of blue and red mixed with the darkened skin of the ogre, who roared in pain. She half-expected it to keel over and fall out of the window, or as least _die_, but somehow, inexplicably, it was still standing, roaring in pain and outrage–

Alistair, his leather armor burning in places, climbed the ogre's back with a display of footwork she would have never been able to accomplish, using his sword as some type of pick to pull himself upward. He jammed it into the side of its neck, severing arteries and tendons. He was suddenly thrown off as the ogre reared up in pain, roaring to the world, and Abigail was accosted by a sudden inspiration. She called on her powers one last time and used another dry-ice spell to freeze the inside of its mouth.

It screamed and screamed in unbearable agony, the sword stuck in its neck, its mouth burning from cold-induced pain. It was dying, and it knew it, and as all cornered animals it was more dangerous for it. She couldn't understand why it wouldn't go down, why it couldn't, and she hit it again and again and again with fire spells, slowing spells, ice charms, whatever came to her mind. Alistair was laying on the ground still, his leg twisted at an awkward angle below him, and she was beginning to despair when, finally, the ogre let out a final, gurgling cough and fell to the ground with such a force that the floor beneath it cracked and tremored.

Abigail ran for Alistair, kneeling beside him. He shook his head, panting, and pointed to the fireplace built into the side of the room. "We've, ung, surely missed the signal by now. Light it!"

And she did. It lit quite suddenly, blazing like the biggest wall-torch she'd ever seen. She leaned back, squinting, amazed by the flames, when Alistair cried out in pain again. "My sword," he grunted. She obeyed, crouching next to the ogre to remove the weapon from its thick, stout neck. Its eyes stared up at the ceiling, unseeing. It disturbed her for some strange reason, and she handed the weapon to Alistair. She collapsed next to him, exhausted. "We did good," he muttered, panting. "Can you. . .?"

She was already shaking her head. "Only scrapes. Bruises. So sorry. . . Wynne will know. I'll make her attend to you first."

He laughed painfully, then clutched his ribs. She feared some of them were broken. "So. . . you were Conscripted like me, eh?"

She held a finger up and turned around, picking up something wrong in the air. She stood there, watching the door, every muscle tense and alert, ready to kill some sodding idiots.

She was aware of a few things at once: as the darkspawn appeared in the doorway they'd just vacated, Alistair muttered something about not being able to do the Remigold with a broken leg; a shadow seemed to fly across the sky; it has stopped raining; and she was wet, unbelievably _wet_ and _tired_ and she wasn't to go to _sleep._

She had no chance against so many darkspawn. She threw up a barrier around herself and Alistair too late. She felt something pierce her shin, piercing all the way through the bone, and another arrow, partially deflected by her spell, buried itself deep into her shoulder.

She hit the ground, yowling in pain. Darkness closed in and she lashed out with all of her might. The darkness highlighted itself in blazing blue for one sharp second, and then she was cut of from the world. Something gripped her around her stomach, lifting her from the stone, and she wondered if she had died.

She opened her eyes once more and what she thought was the last time, her breath echoing loudly in her ears, and saw nothing but the moon.

_The moon, the moon,_ she thought sadly. _I would have gone to you, too._

She closed her eyes.

* * *

**Korcari Wilds** **(daybreak, 12 hours after Loghain betrayed the King)**

The funny old woman, Flemeth, was pacing the perimeter of her hut, muttering things in a language forgotten by men of this Age. As Alistair watched, dipping his feet in the small pond outside of their rescuer's home, he thought he could see a shimmering in the air, as if a heat haze had been cast over the home. Flemeth, _the_ Flemeth of legend, was reinforcing the magical barriers around her home. She seemed awfully grim about it, too, and that was how Alistair knew how serious the situation was, how much trouble they were in. She kept muttering on and on about using roundabout ways to channel the magic, ordering Morrigan about with a sharpness that surprised even her daughter.

Alistair watched all of this and wasn't even angry. He was. . . he was. . . he had no name for the emotion coursing through his veins right now. His mind was filled with thoughts, memories of times long passed, stuck in the past as he reviewed everything his brain was remembering for him. He didn't even bother to wipe the tears off of his face–Flemeth had already seen him sob when he woke up, fully healed under her prodigeous ministrations, as she told him the thing that had turned his world upside-down.

He'd woken up in a soft cot below another bed. Abigail's sleeping face, frowning even in bewitched sleep, loomed above his own. Her hair was tickling his face. His leg had been fully healed and every bruise, scrape, and sore muscle from his previous fight in the Tower of Ishall was gone. He was back to normal–or, hopefully.

He'd dressed, for he was naked except for his undergarmets, after confirming that Abigail, too, was healed of all of her injuries. He'd watched her get struck down, after all, possibly killed, and that was no light thing, not at all. He'd seen some men survive penetrating brain injury, the lucky guys, and he was glad that she, at least, seemed to share in their good fortune.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. The smell of swamps, trees, mountain air, and the humidity he wasn't accustomed to. He knew exactly where he was, perhaps ever since he woke, so he wondered, even now, why he was so surprised when he opened the door to find Morrigan and her mother talking in an undertone on the small grassy knoll at the left of the house. Morrigan took one look at him, arrogant and prideful, and said, "Good, you're up. Sit down, you'll be here a while yet."

"What happened?" he demanded.

Morrigan tsked. "I asked you to sit down, smart one–please do not force me to _help_ you sit." A spark of electricity danced between her fingers, and Alistair decided it would be most prudent to sit. Morrigan sighed in relief. "Should I leave this to you, mother, or shall I break it to him?"

Her mother came over, still dressed in that high-necked smock. She looked exhausted, but that didn't diminish her straight-backed posture one bit. "Settle down, girl," she snapped, drawing nearer. "You, Grey Warden–what is your name?"

"Alistair," he answered.

"Names are fickle things," she continued, "but for the sake of conversation you may call me Flemeth. I rescued you from the top of that tower and ferried you here. All night I've labored on your hurts and wounds and all night I have protected you both from the darkspawn. I am tired and I am surly, so if you value your current appendages then I suggest you listen, and you listen closely."

He nodded, trepidation beginning to rise in his chest. "The battle–"

"Do not interrupt," said she, growling. "Your Teryn Loghain called off his warriors as you lit the beacon–I heard it from his lips and watched as his army marched away, leaving King Cailan and his Grey Warden entourage to the hands of the darkspawn. I don't know his reasons. But everybody from your precious army is dead, and you would be, too, if I hadn't sighted your predicament as I flew. Your _King_ is dead, your _leader_ is dead, and every single Grey Warden in Ferelden is _dead_–except for you."

Alistair stared at her, unblinking, and wondered if she'd cast a spell the froze his insides. He felt slow to comprehend. "W-what?"

"Oh, wonderful," Morrigan muttered. "We obviously rescued the smart ones."

"They _all_ can't be dead," Alistair cried, rising to his feet. "Duncan and Cailan–"

"I flew over the battlefield this morning, at daybreak," Morrigan said. "I looked for survivors, and found none. Those on the battlefield. . ." She deferred to her mother with a tilt of her head.

"There are no survivors," said Flemeth, but Alistair didn't hear them. He was far away, stuck in his own denial. He heard Morrigan laugh and a bowl of hot soup was set in front of him. It was only when Flemeth threatened to take what he didn't eat and force it down his throat that he did so, eating without tasting, because he knew she would and could. His mind had automatically made the connection, of course. Flemeth was the Witch of the Wilds, not Morrigan, and she'd been alive for so long. . . how many Ages? He didn't even care now.

About an hour later Morrigan disappeared back into the hut and Alistair was left staring at Flemeth, not really seeing her, tears running down his face. He knew, of course, that she was right. He knew, and he hated himself for it. . .

Just before the battle had started, Duncan, in all aspects his father, handed him the treaties he had recovered. "Keep them safe," he said, "because we may have need of them in the future."

And all of the Grey Wardens were dead. Duncan was dead. Jaing was dead. Everybody, everybody he'd ever lived with, trained with–all _dead._

He wiped his cheek with the heel up his hand, his lip trembling, and he wished that he could stop remembering, wished he could do something to stop this, to stop this horrible, horrible feeling in his gut.

_Duncan! Duncan. _

He sobbed quietly, hiding his face from view with one hand as he dried his cheeks with the other. Flemeth said nothing, but Morrigan appeared once more, smirking as she took his bowl, and turned to Flemeth. "Abigail is stirring, mother. I'll feed her, and we'll join you shortly."

"Feed her out here," Flemeth snapped. "We can't afford to waste time."

"Of course."

The door closed behind her and Alistair dried his eyes for what he hoped was the last time, washing his face in the water before an odd thought struck him–Flemeth and Morrigan actually _bathed_ in that water. He abruptly took his feet out and stood up, desperate to be moving. The door behind him opened and he turned around, the water gone from his eyes. Abigail stoodin the doorwar, moving easier than she had at the tower of Ishall. She was clothed in her yellow Circle robes, though they no longer looked yellow–they were stained from dust, dirt, and sweat. Blood stains and tears here and there made her look like something much different–much more like a fabled Witch of the Wilds than the mage he knew she was.

"See?" Flemeth asked, gesturing to her. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man. . ."

"You," he said, enunciating his words carefully. His voice sounded bitter and hollow, even to his own ears. "You're alive. I thought we were both dead for sure."

"Yeah, well. . ." Abigail waved her hand in a display of bravado. "I have stuff to do before I die–like killing an even one-thousand darkspawn."

"Duncan's. . . dead. The Grey Wardens. . . the King. They're all dead." He shook his head, not allowing the tears to fall. "This doesn't even seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead, too, atop that Tower. . ."

"Do not talk about me as if I'm not present, lad," Flemeth said crossly.

"He didn't mean it," Abigail said. She sounded hoarse, too, like she was getting used to talking again. "But, what do we call you? You never told us your name."

"Names are pretty, but useless," said she. "The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, and that will have to do."

Alistair noted she didn't warn Abigail about her surly mood. "Daveth was right," Alistair said quietly, glancing at Abigail. "She's a Witch of the Wilds."

"And what does that mean?" she asked lightly. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

Abigail glanced from the two of them, incomprehension on her face. Alistair was suddenly struck that she wouldn't know, she couldn't know what Flemeth was, because they would not tell that story at the Circle, would they? "We can't be safe here," she said finally, frowning. "Were are all of the darkspawn? Why haven't they found us yet?"

"The large part of the Horde has moved on," said Flemeth. "We are safe here, for the moment, shielded by their collective mind. Old Flemeth here knows a thing or two about hiding, though the longer you are here, the less that is true. These things will notice you. . . eventually."

"Then our paths are cut out for us," said Abigail. "We stop the Blight. . . er, somehow."

"We _need_ to bring Loghain to justice!" Alistair thundered. "Why would he do this?"

"Now that is a good question," Flemeth said darkly. "Men's hearts hold more Taint than any darkspawn creature. Of that, I am certain. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the greater threat."

"The Archdemon."

"Can you aid us against the Blight, Flemeth?" Abigail asked politely.

She snorted. "Me? Bah, I am just an old woman you lives in the Wilds. I know nothing of Blights or darkspawn."

"Well, whatever Loghain's _insanity_," Alistair declared through gritted teeth, "he must think the darkspawn and the Blight are a minor threat. We must warn everyone that this isn't the case."

"And then who would believe you?" she countered. "Unless you think yourself wily enough to convince this fool, this Loghain, of his mistake."

_You're absolutely no help at all, you old hag. _"He just betrayed his own _King_," Alistair stated loudly. "If Arl Eamon knew what happened at Ostagar he'd be the first to call for his execution!"

"Arl Eamon," Abigail breathed, her eyes widening. "In _Redcliffe?_"

"Uh, yeah. . . I suppose." He was suddenly disconcerted. "Why? Have you been there before?"

"I might–I _might_ have a friend who can help us," she said in a rush, a wild gleam in her eye. "Just–just trust me. My aunt and uncle live there, too, and my dad's a big lawyer, apparently, in the noble court–listen, if we can convince them _and_ Eamon, would it work?"

"And don't forget the treaties," Alistair said, patting his pockets. "We have those–the elves, the mages, the dwarves."

"Sounds like an army to me," Flemeth said casually.

"An army for the Blight," Abigail said, nodding smartly. "_If_ they'll honor their word, though. . . and I haven't talked to any of my family since I was taken from them. If I walk up to them and tell them my life story since I was six, it wouldn't exactly endear me to any of them, would it?" She frowned.

"What's so bad about your life story?" Alistair pressed. "Why were you Conscripted? Maybe that could help, I don't know, something."

She surveyed him with a curious expression, one that held none of the fear, anger, or hurt he'd seen earlier. She had a goal, a firm plan in mind, and she refused to be deflected by those petty emotions. "Let's just say that friend I mentioned in Redcliffe is an apostate. I kind of helped her escape Kinloch Hold when I was younger. Look, she's my best friend and she was a great mage–and she's got a _staff_, which I obviously lack. We'll need her for any fighting we'll be doing. I'll give my ring to the nearest blacksmith, have them forge a copy, and give it to her so she can pass unnoticed by the Templars."

"Wait, you helped somebody escape from the Circle?" Alistair asked, appalled. "_That's_ what they were on about?"

She gave a bark of laughter. "Perhaps I'll tell you the full story one day–_if_ we survive. But right now we need a starting point, and Redcliffe is close by. . . well, I think, anyway. If we can get past the darkspawn, we can pass through the accompanying villages, get us some new clothes and supplies, then get us a nice little army. It would be what Duncan would want, wouldn't it?"

Oh, she was _manipulative._ Morrigan cast her an appreciative eye. "It _sounds_ like a good idea," Alistair said, frowning.

"I can hear a 'but' a mile away. . ."

"_But_ how can we get through the darkspawn when we can't leave this area?"

"So you are all set to be Grey Wardens, then?" Flemeth asked shrewdly. "You are ready?"

"Yes," said Abigail, inclining her head. "Thank you for all of your help, Flemeth."

"No, no," she chortled. "Thank _you._ You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer."

Morrigan cleared her throat. "The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the morn. . . or none?"

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl," said Flemeth. "And _you_ will be joining them."

"Such a _shame–_wait, _what?_"

"You heard me, girl. The last time I checked, you had ear, mmhmm." She chuckled.

_Noooooooooooooo. . ._

Abigail must have been thinking along the same way as he was. "Thank you for your offer," she said, "but if she doesn't wish to join us. . ."

"Nonsense," she said. "Her magic will be useful. Even better: she knows the Wilds and how to get past the Horde."

"Have _I _no say in this?" Morrigan asked.

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years," Flemeth scolded. "Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives."

"Very well. . ." Abigail said uneasily.

Alistair had to say something. "Not to, erm, look a gift horse in the mouth, _but_ wouldn't this just add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower."

"Point. . . taken."

"Mother," Morrigan spoke up, "This is not how I wanted this. I'm not even _ready–_"

"You must be ready," said Flemeth. "Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. Without you, they shall fail and all shall perish under the Blight–even I."

"I. . . understand. . ."

"And you, Wardens?" Flemeth asked, rounding on them. "Do you understand? I give you what I value among all in this world."

"I understand," Abigail promised.

Morrigan sighed, dejected. "Allow me to at least get my things, if you please," she muttered, turning away. Alistair and Abigail exchanged a quick look, then glanced away.

She didn't take too long and returned from her home carrying a large, reinforced bag that smelled strongly of tree sap. "I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," she said uncertainly. "If I may make a suggestion, I say our first destination is a village just North of the Wilds. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide."

"No, I prefer you speak your mind," Abigail said, smiling a bit.

Flemeth laughed. "You'll regret that soon enough."

"Take care, mother dear. I do not wish to return and the house be burned down."

"Bah! If you fail, not only will my house burn, but all of Ferelden will be swarmed in the Taint!" Flemeth snapped.

Morrigan shrunk back, obviously intimidated. "I–I only meant was–"

Flemeth smiled. "I know," she said gently. "_Do_ try to have fun, dear."

Fun. Oh great, the evil Witch of the Wilds was telling her lovely daughter to have _fun._ _Wonderful. . ._


	4. Loathering

_Author's Note: _You all deserve a long chapter, and I was glad to write it for you! This is 22 pages in total, detailing all of the Grey Warden's time in Loathering and how she came by Leliana, Dog, and Sten. Some quality-time with Alistair in the markets doesn't hurt, either, does it?

Once again, I apologize for the long delay. I've been getting into Aikido so much lately I've had no time for anything else. I did write an entire chapter weeks ago while I was traveling, but my laptop (God rest it's soul!) died on me. I have a new one, a Dell Inspiron, and I LOVE it! :D

More chapters are coming soon. I hope you all can cope with the amount I wrote here. :)

-CI

* * *

Single file through the Korcari Wilds: Morrigan picked their path, parting ferns, tipping branches aside with her black staff. Abigail followed ten meters back and Alistair brought up the rear. The two of them took turns, switching positions from time to time, covering each other in a way that she'd never been trained, but it felt so natural that they did it anyway without conversing.

Abigail had to look sharp to keep track of Morrigan. Once they were well into the Wilds and, worse, when the sun began it's slow descent to the horizon, Morrigan became hard to track. Her gaze had a strange tendency to slip aside their guide, to pass over without seeing unless she firmly directed her will: a useful talent in a place where humans were just another prey animal.

Occasionally Morrigan would stop and move swiftly to cover, sometimes so fast that Abigail would keep going until her pale hand snaked across dying wildflowers to pull her to a space between her. There they would sit, silent, hardly daring to breath. Only when Morrigan opened her eyes and her shoulders relaxed did they continue on. Abigail didn't know what they stopped for, though she had a hunch. Spotted cats and the other dangerous creatures would have instinctively avoided any area with Morrigan present, which left the only creatures she had to fear here, in her haven: the darkspawn.

Abigail didn't see the mysterious object Flemeth had handed her ere their parting, but she'd promised it would give the darkspawn something other to smell instead of three tasty humans just waiting for some seasoning.

They continued on.

It was by far one of the most grueling hikes Abigail, in her short experience, had ever taken. She thought Duncan had been pressing it after they left the Circle, but Morrigan seemed determined not only to match him but to surpass him. She found routes where none could be seen and they stopped for nothing, not even a quick relief.

Night fell, and the claustrophobic closeness of the cold, but humid jungle gave way to a slightly rockier terrain that rolled with slight hills, knolls, and valleys. The moon shined silver-bright above their heads, illuminating their way only slightly, but they didn't even dare to make a fire.

And so they carried on in grim, torturous silence.

For those who'd lived within the Circle Tower, darkness was a thing of the primitive, primitive past. Candles were lit at night, made out of a wax taken from bees they bred themselves, and even the most rudimentary of children could summon a tiny flame into existence to relight the candle should it burn out. This total blackness was foreign to her. It summoned up memories of memories, causing a shiver to roll down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

The only comfort she had was that she was leaving Ostagar behind. The thought of Wynne and the rest of the mages there crossed her mind only once, igniting a small twinge of regret, but she pushed it down deep. She was good at that.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when Morrigan finally made them halt. They took solace in the shade of an overhanging rock wall and slept, uncomfortable, on the rough-textured grass. Alistair went to sleep immediately, his head pillowed on his metal-clad arms, and Morrigan curled into a fetal position, closing her eyes. Abigail made herself as comfortable as possible, her side resting against the cliff face, and decided that she was going to buy—or steal—camp beds in Loathering.

Hell, maybe even from the Circle of Magi. Wouldn't that be satisfying?

She blinked a few times in the lightening sky, staring up at a few blue jays taking flight. Her eyes shut, the two fragile bodies of the avians superimposed in an after-image, and she smiled softly to herself. Even if they were the most high-and-mighty zealots in the world, the Circle sure could train it's Magi. . . after all, she'd felt worse after her display in Irving's office. . . Poor Duncan. . . Poor poor Duncan. . .

Abigail awoke quite suddenly, her limbs stiffening in surprise, and at first she didn't know why. Bleary, she reached up to rub her eyes when something wet and spongy wiped her cheek, up and down. It was accompanied by heavy panting. Her eyes shot open and she pushed the Whatever-It-Was away from her face, scrambling backwards. The sun was high in the sky, blinding her in its intensity. She caught a flash of disapproving yellow eyes and coarse black fur, and was pushed back to the ground by this same animal—a _dog, _her mind supplied. A paw on each shoulder, it forced her down so it could continue licking her face, giving her an unwarranted, though certainly needed, bath.

Finally, she found her voice. "Down, doggy!"

Something stirred in front of her. The rustle of heavy leather reached her ears. "What—what? What did I—oh, Maker, somebody—wait!" Alistair obviously wasn't very quick in the morning, or afternoon. "That's the dog, the dog from Ostagar."

Abigail pulled her head away from the mabari hound's searching tongue, attempting to squirm away. "Yes, yes, boy, I get it! I get it! Good—oh, Andraste--" The mabari placed his paw, dead center, right on her cheek. He began to lick her more vigerously, and she could feel the small vibrations of his small stub of a tail wagging on his rump. "Yes, good boy, good boy! Bear! Whatever the hell you are!"

It panted happily in her face and nuzzled against her chin with it's nose. It barked, and the noise sounded loud and painful in Abigail's ears.

"He seems happy to see you," Alistair said, his voice awed. "I've heard of this before. Mabari sometimes tend to imprint on a human they've grown a liking to. This poor fellow probably followed us all the way from Ostagar."

"Did I really stink—that—bad?"

Another bark. Abigail found her hand and rubbed his head affectionately, the shock starting to wear down into plain humor. She rubbed her head against the hound's, kissing his nose and ears. "How in the world did you escape from _there_?" she asked wonderingly. "I was afraid you were dead!"

The mabari's only answer was a barking growl, and he licked her face ferociously. "Hey—Alistair--where's Morrigan?" Abigail asked, peering around her attacker's great broad, black shoulder at the place she'd been sleeping.

"Right here," said said airily from somewhere behind. "That mabari has certainly seen better days. It can't have had an easy time getting out of that battlefield. Not after Loghain quit the field, anyway. But still, strong, and may be useful."

"Hold on, do we even know his name?" Alistair asked.

"Nope," answered Abigail, peering into the intelligent yellow eyes that had first entranced her. "I wonder if he's eaten since I got the kennel master that flower. . ."

"Mabari are pretty intelligent," said Alistair as the canine cocked his head and licked her nose. "Some people think they can understand human speech. Wow, he looks just like a baby bear, you know that, right? Why do mabari have to be the _biggest_ dogs in existence, anyway?"

Abigail detached the paws from her face and shoulder, getting to her knees. Her legs felt like goo. She ran her fingers through the mabari's coarse fur, covering his face with kisses. His contented expression spoke, _Wow, I like you already!_ Or maybe he was falling asleep. For as much research she'd done on the subject of canines, she'd never figured out their physical signs as well.

She'd had four dogs, though, a long time ago. A large, gray hound with eyes that exact same shade of intelligent yellow that never strayed far away from a food bowl; two medium-sized black ones, one so fluffy that her dad needed to shave her fur off more than once, the other so long-haired and inky-black that he was just the extension of a shadow; and then a smaller one, white and fluffy, always looking beaten and run-down. Hootch, Clay, Bear, and Pepper.

Damn, she missed them. They were probably dead by now, too, and that made her sad. _Nothing can live forever._

After witnessing the epic events of Ostagar, it shouldn't have come as a surprise, but she felt sorrowful all the same.

Alistair dug through his pack and offered the dog some of his dry rations, and he chomped it up happily. Alistair ate, too, his face falling back into lines of misery as soon as he took his eyes off of the dog, and Abigail decided that it was time for her to feast, as well. She felt empty and hollow, but not _bad,_ exactly. Seeing the mabari, feeling loved, seemed to have erased all of her bad feelings.

She couldn't keep her eyes off of her new faithful hound as she chewed her meal, and with one hand she continued to pet his strong, muscular back. He lay close to her, eating the meat with a kind of weary gratitude, and Abigail wondered if they should just rest a few more hours before continuing. She was on the verge of saying it when Morrigan offhandidly reported, "Loathering is over the next turn, hidden by those rocky hills. We'll be able to see the trader's roads as we get closer."

"Wait a minute," Abigail said, turning to look at her. "You mean we could have slept in an inn last night?"

"Loghain's men left at daybreak, as I knew they would, but it would be foolish to go in so close behind. By waiting, I guaranteed us a reprieve from some of the questions that would be sure to plague us. One could _almost_ say I tried to spare us unnecessary interrogations by the Templar regiments who are no doubt on watch for any Grey Warden survivors."

"The only Grey Wardens that Loghain ever met with were both of us, and Duncan." Alistair bit out his name as though it hurt, and it probably did. Abigail didn't know if she should just feel detachment or pity for this strange man, the one that was supposed to be a Templar. "He'll have given them our descriptions, just to be sure."

"It's what I would do," Morrigan said with a shrug. "And with the Circle of Magi visiting today, they'll be on the lookout for anything suspicious." She shot a glance at Abigail, who stared calmly back. "Those robes, are they a mark of the Circle?"

"Yes. They're mage robes. Apprentices traditionally wear blue. Enchanters wear red."

"Very colorful," she sneered. "We'll get rid of them as soon as we can, then." Abigail glanced down at the robes, amused by what she saw.

They'd once been pure yellow, new, and clean. Now they were crusted with blood, sweat, and tears, grass stains, holes, and the resin of some purple plant she hadn't noticed until then. They were so dirty that it was more than a few shades darker. On her belt was the sword she'd taken from a darkspawn at the entrance of the Tower of Ishall. All in all, not a very mage-like outfit. "I suppose I see your point. I don't look like myself, do it?"

"Are you wearing anything underneath those? Mother attended to both of your injuries while I was out catching rabbit for the stew, so I wouldn't know."

An indignant blush crept up Alistair's cheeks, and Abigail had a vivid mental picture of that old woman Flemeth peeking underneath her clothes. Even with the best of intentions, it was a violation of space. She felt her jaw begin to work. "Yeah. . . erm, a small tunic. Brown, tight. . . Suicidal in this weather."

"It'll work until we get you proper clothing."

"Don't forget yourself," Abigail pointed out, mostly to cover up the fact that she was blushing from the tips of her ears to her chin. "Aren't you _cold?_"

"Yes, but _I _can survive, Grey Warden. I've had much more practice outside your cozy home than you have. _I _don't shrink away at the smallest bite of cold wind."

The mabari cocked his head quizzically, looked at them both, then continued eating his share of the meal.

They continued to debate it, but in the end Morrigan was proved right. Abigail would wait off of the road behind a clump of bushes until they found something that would fit her. It was Alistair's suggestion that Morrigan take her Circle ring, though, just to avoid awkward questions. When she took it off of her finger she felt an abstract sense of loss, then threw the foolish notion away. She would never be a part of the Circle again, of that she was sure.

* * *

"I bet you had a difficult time of it," Abigail said offhandidly, staring up at the small patch of sky above that wasn't covered by the leafy foliage of the bush they were hiding in. The scent of damp grass, flowers, and the faint scent of baking bread from Loathering surrounded her like an intoxicating agent. She itched to be out there, running around with her new mabari warhound, but she was neither impulsive nor stupid. A slight chill caused goosebumps to rise on her exposed skin, which felt strangely naked without the heavy yellow robe protecting her. Instead, the tight under-tunic provided whatever protection it could.

She'd dumped the yellow robes in the water. She'd owned them for less than a week.

She glanced over at the mabari, her head pillowed on one arm. She was idly stroking his fur with another. "I think you'd have to be very brave to get through all those nasty darkspawn. You're a good boy."

He panted happily.

"My old dogs weren't as smart as you, but I loved them very much. Pepper was my first dog. He was white and small, kind of like a dust mop, and he could never see out of his tiny black eyes. You look a lot like Hootch, though, even though he was gray. You have the exact same-colored eyes. . . but you're as black as Bear and Clay. When they decided I was a mage, they took me away from my family, you know. Horrible. Huge Templars just dragged me off. . . Barely got to say a goodbye to my brother and my dogs."

He whined a little bit and laid his head on her lap.

"Yeah, thanks. I stayed there for years, just doing my stuff. Researched as much as I could about dogs, then when I was bored with that I decided that elemental magic was fun. Fire is the most fun." She giggled the most un-Abbyish giggle. "I scare people with it. I like that.

"We need to find a suitable name for you. I can't just call you 'Dog' can I? Nope. So until Alistair and Morrigan get back we're going to work on it until we find something good. Sound good?"

He indicated his consent.

It couldn't be a girly name, and it couldn't be a pampered name like 'Fido' or 'Muffin' either. She thought for a moment, arranging the names in her mind, then came out with a small list. "How about Barkspawn?" she suggested jokingly.

He growled: the sound vibrated her thigh.

"Okay, okay. Bad idea—amusing pun but very, very bad idea. Marcus? No, no. . . How about Hulick? Wes? Jaing? I would name a son of mine Jaing. It's a nice-sounding name. No? Hmm. . . never fear, we'll find something!"

Talking to the hound was easier than talking to another human being. To have another person to confide in was something she'd taken for granted as a younger Apprentice, and now she cherished it. A dog held a comfort no human could replicate.

Eventually they settled on a name.

"Alrighty, Bear-boy. Morrigan and Alistair should be back soon. . . We'll get you some good food, got it? We both will."

* * *

Loathering was, as Alistair put it, 'pretty as a painting.' To him, she supposed, it was probably like every other run-down village he'd come across during whatever travels he'd taken, but Abigail loved every square inch of it. The grass, yellow and dried in the incoming winter, shot up like weeds between her knees and tickled her hands as she walked. The houses, run-down and poor-looking, were beautiful in their own way, so rustic and homey in a way that the Circle Tower could never, ever replicate, and the _smells._ It was almost worth passing in front of the Chantry and the Templar guardians just to smell the delicious wafts of smoke rising from the chimneys in their kitchens. There was no arguing that this was a grim place in present circumstances, with the arl's men killed at Ostagar and the darkspawn advancing through the Korcari Wilds, but right then, at that moment, Abigail was at peace. She breathed in deeply the scent of crushed greens, baked bread, the slight spritzes of apples in the air.

Freedom. She wondered if Teresa had the same reaction. If she were her, Abigail would never have left.

When Morrigan and Alistair had returned only half of an hour ago to her hideout, Morrigan tossed the mage ring to Abigail with casual efficiency, carrying a new, reinforced backpack in her other arm. It was already filled and packed with the essential bedroll, rations, and small miscellaneous items she didn't realize were cooking utensils until she got close enough to see. Abigail placed the ring on her finger and held out her hand for the clothes. Instead of the rough, home-spun wool she was expecting, it was actual _armor_. Leather armor.

Alistair muttered something about keeping a lookout while Morrigan showed her how to put it on. _Too many buckles,_was Abigail's constant complain, but she secretly liked it. Those bulky robes didn't show off her body at all and hardly protected her, but _this_ was tight and formidable.

If Teresa were still with her, she would have started the trademark Amell Evil Laugh.

Morrigan explained that there were no mages to worry about at Loathering. An escaped blood mage from the Circle Tower had led the Templars on a strange dance and, though they were long gone by now, the Tranquil had made their sales and left pretty quick.

"The town won't be occupied much longer," said Alistair, who'd returned from his lookout as soon as she was fully clothed. "Now, this is just a guess, but I think that they _might_ of noticed the impending darkspawn."

"We can handle it," said Abigail, patting the hilt of her sword. "How did you afford all of this stuff?"

"I had some coin on me," Alistair said. "Here."

And he handed her some money. Fifteen silvers and a few bronze coin chinked half-halfheartedly at the bottom.

She'd taken basic math in the Circle Tower and still remembered a few things from before then (though they were like a foggy picture in her mind) and knew enough to realize that she _didn't_ know how to pay for food or other eccentricities. This seemed like a serious fault in her magical education. She would have asked Morrigan, but she was long gone, checking out the surrounding countryside for herbs and roots she would need to make poultices of the type healers used at the Circle of Magi.

"Alistair," she muttered, joining a line of people waiting for the merchant to get to them, "help."

He was at her shoulder. He bent down to listen. "Yes?"

"I don't. . . I don't know how to. . ." She gestured with her money bag with a defeated air. "Can you pay for what I want?"

He paused for a moment and blinked twice. "They never taught you how to pay for stuff?" he asked in a disbelieving tone. The grieved edge that had been there since the Tower of Ishall had lifted into slight incredulity. "You're not joking, are you? No, you're not. Wow."

She felt her face redden. "My education was mainly focused on roasting those who annoy me."

"Then I shall be totally intent on not annoying you then, my lady," he said. She couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, and she was struck yet again how different people were from the small cloistered group she'd grown up with. Alistair bought her a loaf of honeyed bread obviously straight from the Circle and she ate a small piece with relish, eying the amount of money being passed between the two men. Alistair handed him ten bronze pieces and they wandered over to a small bench just outside of the Chantry. "You know, we _did_ have food with us. You didn't have to go buy some for yourself."

"And with Morrigan accompanying us, we probably won't want for meat, either," said she, breaking off a piece of bread, sniffing it experimentally as if she expected poison, and popped it into her mouth like candied nuts. Yes, they were from the Circle Tower. She would recognize the honey from Owain's stockrooms anywhere. "But this stuff is special."

"Bread is special?" he asked dubiously.

"Of course," she said, handing him a small piece. "Here."

He laid it on his tongue and chewed thoughtfully. "Good," he said. He held out his hand for more, and she obliged.

"It comes from the Circle. We harvest the honey from our bees, which we keep on the opposite side of the bathing areas, and gather enough that we just can't eat it all. We grow it for pleasure and export, then, and made a fairly acceptable sum from the proceeds. And the Tranquil, our. . . non-magic folk, they spend their lives to the art of alchemical and magical things. They're so smart, they seem almost bored with it, if they're even capable of being bored. They prepare our meals, spicing up the duck and meat and whatever else we have on our plates with such a good taste that it's almost worth being locked up, just for that food."

She felt his eyes on her face, and she felt like ducking her head. Freedom was going to her head, and here she was, telling completely stupid stories to a man she hardly knew. He was a Templar, too, to her chagrin. She couldn't forget that, no matter how justified, Knight-Commander Greagoir and his underlings had been cruel to their charges and basically bred dissent across the entire magi population.

"You miss it there?" he asked.

"No," she said quickly. "It was horrible there. It was a pampered prison, nothing more."

"I've never met another mage before," he said, turning around to stare at the crowd. "Not that I've gone out looking, mind you. We learn to train our mind against magic and negate mana effects. I'm not a full Templar, though. I never took any of the vows."

That got her attention. "I thought you were," she said, her eyebrows narrowing in suspicion. "Why didn't you take the vows?"

"Ah, well. . ." He shrugged modestly. "Chantry life, it just wasn't for me. I believe in the Maker and all of that, really, but I'm not the type of guy who enjoys being preached to twenty-four hours a day."

"So why would you ever join? Does the rest of Ferelden honestly have no clue about the spirituality of the Templars?"

"No, it's not—listen, I didn't really _want_ to join. But I had to. Unavoidable circumstances. Uh. . ." His face was going red. "So what's your friend's name? In Redcliffe?"

"Teresa. She's the only one I think I can still. . . Yeah, she was a good girl when I knew her. She'll help me. She _owes_ me."

"Because you helped her escape the Circle Tower?" At Abigail's nod, he frowned so deeply it seemed to be etched in his face. "Is this the blood mage the Templars were looking for? They said it was a male, though. . ."

"His name is Jowan," she said. Her neutral expression and tone were a mask for the sudden hurt that twisted the inside of her stomach into a knot. "He's no friend of mine, but it was surprising that he turned out to be a blood mage. I always thought he wasn't very powerful, but. . ." She shrugged. "I watched him use his blood magic to knock aside a whole platoon of Templars like pins. I'd like to find him."

"And why would you go looking for him?"

"To kill him. He helped Teresa escape, too, and thought that I could repay the same favor with him. Like a fool, I went along, never suspecting. He attacked me, too. After I complete this quest, I shall find him and kill him for betraying me and my trust."

"He _really_ got on your bad side, didn't he?"

"We were friends." The weight she put on that word spoke volumes. There was only one type of friend to her, and it wasn't interchangeable. Jowan had been an integral part of her being, as had Teresa, until the latter escaped. Jowan's betrayal was like a mockery, leaving her alone and friendless. She resented every moment the Chantry kept her cloistered away, forcing Jowan to use blood magic, forcing her to kill him.

She would have changed everything if she could have.

"I'm sorry." Alistair's voice was sincere enough, but she doubted he was actually paying attention. Boys were like that. "I see why. . . yeah, I guess you did have it rough, didn't you? It's lucky Duncan was there, or else. . ."

"He gave me a second chance. He's a very good man, to overlook a mistake like that."

"Yeah. He was." Alistair looked away, and it was her turn to rake her eyes over his face, wondering. His eyes were strangely glassy.

Hesitantly, she placed a finger on his shoulder. "I. . ." No words would come to her. In despair, she broke off another piece of bread and handed it to him. He took it gratefully and munched on it, looking far away into a world she couldn't see. "He took you away from the Chantry, which you didn't like. . . And he was your mentor. I understand how you feel."

He snorted. "Thanks. It's just. . . it's just hard to realize that he won't ever be there again." He choked up slightly at those words and ducked his head. She glanced at her knee, rubbing at the unfamiliar leather harness attached to her thigh, until he finally emerged, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. "I hate being like this. He wouldn't want me being sad about him."

"He'd want us to fulfill the last thing he ever truly wanted," said Abigail. "To kill the darkspawn and make Ferelden a safer place."

"And look where we're starting," he muttered, waving his hand in a vague gesture towards the town before them. "Two Grey Wardens, the _only_ two, a dead King, and. . ." He pointed at the Chantry board next to her head. "A warrant for our arrest."

"What the hell?" She looked up and immediately wished she didn't. Right there, emblazoned in large red letters denoting a formal military request, was a sheaf of parchment recently nailed to the large wooden sign.

GREY WARDENS ARE HEREBY OUTLAWED IN THE NATION OF FERELDEN FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF KING CAILAN AT OSTAGAR.

ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO SURVIVING MEMBERS OF THE ORDER WILL BE HANDSOMELY REWARDED WITH FIVE (5) SOVEREIGNS.

All known Grey Wardens to be operated within the nation's borders are listed as follows:

Below was a list of names totally unfamiliar to her, except for Duncan's, Alistair's, and her own, and descriptions thereof. It was signed and dated by no other than Loghain MacTire.

"No," she breathed.

"Wonderful," Alistair grumbled. "That lump of garbage!"

She read through the names again. "I'm recognizable to mages," she whispered, sudden fear dawning on her. "Even though I don't wear the robes, Alistair, they can _feel me._ It's why we use staffs, to minimize out mana output. If they just stretch out with their mind, they can feel me and I wouldn't be able to know."

Alistair's eyes were wide. "They broke your staff," he said, the information washing over his face in a burst of sudden understanding. He hastily rearranged his features into something of a placating gesture. "Don't worry. We'll take care of you. We'll find a staff somewhere, and--"

"It's not _that_ bad," she muttered, more to herself. "As long as I don't give them a reason to look, right? As long as I keep myself to myself. . ." She snorted at the absurdity of the statement. "What about Templars? People keep saying they have some kind of innate mentality that repels mages. Any tricks you can teach me?" She glanced at him, half-joking, half-hopefully.

He was already shaking his head. "Not for your situation."

"I know. But I had to ask. I refuse to get another killed for my mistakes."

And such was the conviction in her voice that he did not question her. "Don't worry about it," he said cheerfully. "We're all big boys and girls here, and you're a great mage. You're going to turn the tide in every battle with your spells."

She giggled. "That's a nice thing to say."

"It's true. You don't seem to. . . _tire_ as much as other mages. Even in the Tower, I was half-expecting you to collapse after that first fight. I wonder why that is."

She shrugged. "I've always had an easier time of it than others. I don't know why. I'm also a quick learner, and magic is the only thing I feel challenged with at a particular level, because it's both physical and mental. And you can't ever make a mistake, for if you do, you die."

"It sounds like a hard life," he mused.

"No. Just difficult. Boring beyond belief at times, frightfully scary at others. Sometimes you put too much of yourself into a spell and don't wake up. It's happened before to others I've known. Some escape, though, if they fear the Harrowing. . . Or sometimes after. During my stay, a man known as Anders snuck out the day after his Harrowing without permission, and the Templars were dragging him back for the second time by the moment I left. Ha! He was always a source of inspiration for me. Irving had no time for him. . ."

"Really?" asked Alistair dryly. She handed him another piece of bread, took a nibble for herself, then wrapped it up and placed it into her new pack. "Time to look around, I s'ppose," said Alistair, standing with a groan.

Walking around the beautiful village inhabited by all these desperate and scared-looking people, Abigail couldn't help but feel an abstract sadness for their loss. She wished there was something she could do, but no opportunity presented itself. She stayed far away from the Chantry Board in case somebody should read it and recognize her as the woman mentioned. A woman asked her for help finding herbs upon seeing her Circle of the Magi ring on her finger, but she wasn't very skilled at the art and had to decline. Another asked, "Will you help me set traps for the darkspawn coated with poison?" She declined that, also, because she had seen the army herself and knew that a couple of traps wouldn't even put a dint in their forces.

Morrigan arrived to find them within the hour, her sap-smelling bag now holding a trace scent of grass within the countryside. Bear was prancing behind her – he had gone off with her and Abigail's request, for an armed and armored man and woman traveling together would not garner as much attention as they would have with a genuine, pure-bred mabari war hound following them. When the troop was together again, people practically ogled.

Considering that if Morrigan didn't have that strip of a bra holding her breasts together, Abigail could see why. She was skilled enough in the inner working of a male's mind to know that many of them would be going slack-jawed at the sight of her. And Morrigan _was_ beautiful, no doubt, with pale ebony skin and dark hair that would make shadows jealous if they had voice. "Bandits are thick in this area," she said with a compulsive sneer, taking her backpack from Alistair and sliding it on to her shoulders. "Loud, scared men with knives, thinking they have the mentality to lay an ambush for weary travelers. I took care of a group in a neighboring field after they shot at me with bows and arrows. It was very quick."

"Good job," Abigail congratulated.

Morrigan inclined her head and Bear wagged his stump of a tail like an excited poodle, sniffing the bag Abigail held in her arms. "Ah! I know what you want." She took out another small piece of the bread, which was hardly declined in quantity, and fed it to him, then handed some to Morrigan, who ate it without comment. "I checked over the maps: it will take us at the very least three days to reach Redcliffe if we press our pace, but we might be able to drive some distance between us and the darkspawn."

"I doubt they'll send more than a few raiding parties at a time," said Morrigan. "As I was telling Alistair, they'll most likely stop at this village and restore their stocks for a while. We must be careful not to stray too close to their nest, however, because if they feel either of you nearby then you'll be in greater danger than you already are."

"Right little ray of sunshine, you are," Alistair muttered.

"At least I am thinking in practicalities," she snapped. "Finished watching your navel yet? You have been contemplating it for some time now since we left."

He restrained himself, but only with a little effort. His cheeks were red.

Abigail stepped in before they could rip themselves apart. "Let's just go, then, shall we? Long road ahead of us."

Morrigan looked smug as she fell in line behind her, next to Alistair, and Abigail tried not to feel too much sadness for leaving the village once again. The backpack (Morrigan had 'procured' three of them) was equipped with a bedroll, and most of the supplies were mixed within them so that if one was lost during the journey then they would still have enough provisions. Despite the impending doom, Abigail was excited as she shouldn't have been. _Backpacking! This will be great!_

Oh, how fresh and green the air smelled!

For a moment her burden hung only lightly on her shoulders, entranced as she was by this feeling that seemed to come and go as it pleased. It soared high for a moment, thrilling on the adventure awaiting, and then she caught sight of a tall metal cage that nontheless seemed too small for it's burly, gray-skinned occupant. He stood instead of sitting, his white hair gathered in tight braids against his skull, and yet he did not look old or particularly fatigued. He was strong, she saw, stronger than any person Abigail could have fathomed, and she had a feeling that if he wished to break out of his cage, he could.

"A qunari," she whispered.

A qunari with very good hearing, apparently. He opened one eye, dark and bloodshot as was common of that race, and stared at her. He grunted something under his breath that Abigail couldn't catch, then closed his eye again as if she annoyed him.

Alistair gave a bit of a strangled oath behind her, but she was already moving towards his cage. _Teresa._ Hadn't Teresa been studying qunari religion before she left? Abigail could barely remember the study now. . . She hadn't paid attention to the species in such a long time. . .

It was if a hand was stretched out across thought and time, beckoning. She took it.

"Don't even presume to annoy me, human," said the qunari. His voice was crisp and clean, as if he measured every word with a micrometer. Military, then. Most qunari were, she recalled.

"I wasn't planning on it," she said honestly. He towered above her, at least two feet taller than Allan, who had been the tallest person she'd known. "I am Abigail. Pleased to meet you." She held out her hand through the cage.

Both of his eyes opened, now. "You mock me by showing politeness your kind does not generally give. . . or not." He stared at the hand, then the eyes offering it. She kept his gaze, likening him to a bereskarn in Bryce's class so long ago, and blinked calmly. She wasn't about to have a pissing contest with him. Slowly, he grasped her fingers: his hand dwarfed her's in comparison, strong and warm. "I am Sten."

She nodded, satisfied, and withdrew the hand. "What are you doing here, Sten?"

"Standing, as you observed."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Obviously. Why were you made to stand in the cage, then?"

"The townspeople accuse me of murder." His voice was a monotone, each line falling so perfectly on his tongue that it might as well been rehearsed. "Instead of hanging me, they prefer me to wait here for the immediate darkspawn attack since your King failed at Ostagar."

"And are you guilty?" she asked him.

"Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am guilty of the crime?" Before she could answer, he cursed in a tongue not known to her. "Is there a point to this? They think I am guilty, and I face my penance in this cage: to starve or die in the first of the darkspawn's assault."

"I want to know," she said calmly, trying not to show the bewilderment on her face. Then she said, for reasons she didn't know, "I am a Grey Warden. I'm going to defeat the darkspawn."

He said nothing, but waited. His face was like a stone, carved and etched into lines unfathomable and expressionless. White stubble was growing like moss upon that face of his, unshaven but still impeccably bright against his grayish-purple flesh.

"Look at this," Morrigan muttered, coming up next to her. "An intelligent creature, tied up here for the darkspawn. Another example of the Chantry's mercy. A creature such as this does not deserve to be trapped and eaten like a common hare."

"Pity? From _you?_" Alistair sounded surprised. "Well, I never!"

"I would also suggest Alistair take his place in the cage," Morrigan continued.

"Yes. I would expect that."

"You could find your penance working with us, Sten," Abigail said, hardly believing her own words. "Fight with us against the darkspawn."

"Huh. Intriguing."

She waited.

"It does not matter," said Sten suddenly. "The Revered Mother won't release me, and it is by her hand that I am here. If you can convince her to let me go, then yes, Warden. . . I will fight the darkspawn."

She nodded in a business-like manner and stepped backwards. "Collect your thoughts and your wits, because as soon as I can free you we will be taking to road to Redcliffe, past Bann Teagan's lands. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Then I shall see you soon."

She turned on her heel and strode back the way she came. When the qunari's cage was out of sight, she let out a big breath she'd been holding and walked over to a large tree standing guard just outside of the local pub and inn. Others mingled outside, but so intent they were on their own suffering they didn't seem to care about her. Her two comrades took their seats next to her and Morrigan launched at once into conversation.

"A qunari could be helpful," said she, "but telling it you were a Grey Warden was a fool thing to do—who knows if it will fight for us and not just kill us all as soon as we release it?"

"You said you pitied him," Abigail countered, without venom. "Well, I do, too."

"Pity," she scoffed. "Yes, I pity any who are constrained by the rules of an organization so corrupt as the Chantry, but--"

Abigail held up her hand, cutting her off. "Hold your peace, Morrigan. He will not betray us so easily as you seem to think."

"I doubt you came across qunari at the Circle."

"I studied them. It was made a priority after the Third Exalted March. To be perfectly honest I cannot remember most of it, because I was young when I finished my research—younger, in fact, than I am now—but I know enough to realize he is not a threat. At least, not a threat to us."

"I do not like this."

"Think of it this way, then," said Abigail, beginning to lose her patience. "If he does decide to kill us, you can have the honor of finishing him. Now, on to our next problem: I'm not welcome inside the Chantry, and I would prefer not to go in at all even if I were. My ring emits a small magical aura that immediately calls out to all copies in the vicinity, and even now I can feel the presence of two mages within the church itself, or at least two rings. If they pay attention, we'll be found out quickly. Alistair, you took Templar training, so I'm going to count on you for the time being. Can you shield the aura with your mind? Any talent you've been taught?"

She held out the golden ring; it was set with a yellow stone, signifying her rank within the order. Alistair looked at it, measuring his next words as if they had the capability to do as much damage as a hammer to glass. "I'll do it," he said, pocketing it. "Just a thought: _why_ are you keeping it if it's just another way for the mages to find you?"

"Magic rings open up as many doors as they close, Alistair," she said. "Thank you, though." She flashed him a kind smile.

"I'll stay here," Morrigan said in what Abigail thought was a childish voice. "If you are set in doing this, then I suppose I cannot walk in there looking like a scary witch, no? Meet me back here when you have the key."

* * *

The Revered Mother was a tall, intimidating woman with steel-gray hair and eyes the color of dirt. Her robes, so fair and majestic, were crumpled with worry and her browned face seemed almost withered with her anxiety. Here was a woman who genuinely cared for her people and the Maker Himself. It didn't mean Abigail had to like her, and it certainly didn't mean that the woman had to like her, either.

Abigail could see her across the room, conversing in low tones with a boy of about six. She was consoling him, handing him a bear and a few bronze pieces, probably so he could buy some food. He was the same age she had been when she was taken.

Peace and love. Tranquility and acceptance.

"Hypocrites," Abigail mouthed underneath her breath, inhaling a large lungful to calm herself down. She held her breath for two seconds, then released it. She couldn't afford to be petty now, not when there was the life of a man at stake outside.

She still didn't know why she was doing it, only that it seemed to be the right course of action. She hoped to the Maker she wasn't about to make one of the biggest mistakes of her short and insignificant life.

"You can do it," Alistair said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. They were passing the two mages she'd sensed earlier, bent over a man with a horrible wound. Magic flowed from the tips of their staffs, healing the jagged hole in his thigh bit by bit. Abigail snuck a peak at their faces to see if she recognized them, but either these were rare visitors to the Circle or foreigners because she couldn't place their features. Alistair must have thought they were making her nervous, that _they_ were the cause of the slight tremble in her hands. Oh, no, it was the woman in front of them, this Revered Mother, who made her so angry.

She was going to kill Jowan, there was no doubt of that in her mind. She was angry and hurt with his betrayal, but she was a smart woman, too. She knew that if it hadn't been for the Chantry, if it hadn't been for the Templars, she wouldn't have been going through the heartache right now. Her feelings towards the Chantry and her former friend were strong indeed, and very much on the negative side.

* * *

"_Abby, I need some help. Quickly, in here." Jowan seized her hand and pulled her along the empty hallways towards the place of communal worship. Instead of bringing her to Andraste's altar, as she suspected, he steered her towards the corner of the room, to a place halfway hidden by piles upon piles of library books stacking the shelves. She could read the names of all of them, in every hand they were written in: elvish, human, and even the dwarven runes of shaping and binding. At first she thought that Jowan was going to ignore one of the Chantry's initiates (a sort of helping hand towards the Revered Mother) until the initiate looked up with a nervous, slightly manic expression on her face that Abigail always associated with exam review. Jowan let go of her hand at once._

_The initiate held her own out. Abigail took it. "I am Lily," she said softly, as if she didn't want to be overhead. "I've heard so much about you from Jowan."_

_Abigail threw Jowan a questioning look. "You said you needed help? What's wrong?"_

_Jowan began to pace back and forth, anxiety rolling off of his body in waves. "Lily and I love each other, Abby. It's why—it's why I've been so short around you. I'm so sorry. I'll explain more later, if I can, because you _have_ to listen to me. Please."_

_Abigail nodded, her stomach doing a few flips of it's own. Her new mage robes felt oddly hot on her person, and the new ring on her finger seemed to weigh her down. The staff in her hand, beautifully crafted by somebody who obviously know his trade, was used now more as a support than anything. Oh. How stupid could she have been, anyway, to think that maybe, maybe she and Jowan had something going? How stupid could she be. . .?_

_And yet he was still her friend, and he apologized. She had to forgive him. "I understand. Tell me what's going on, Jowan."_

_He began to fidget, and the white scar marking his palm, that funny scar, seemed to gleam in the weak light from the upper windows. "I—I need to escape. People must have seen me sneaking off to see Lily or something, I don't _know_, but—Abby, they think _I'm_ a blood mage! They're going to do something tonight, I know it. That's why they've brought the Grey Warden, don't you understand? That's why he's here still and Wynne and the others _aren't._ He's going to help them."_

_A stone seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach. "No. Not possible. He's _recruiting _me."_

"_Then it's a test!" Jowan said. "To see if you'll kill me yourself, I bet! Abby—oh, Abby, I'm afraid. I'm terrified of—of losing Lily. I don't mind dying, but I can't become a Tranquil. I can't--"_

_She hugged him. "Shush. Shut. Up. We'll help you out."_

_He hugged her back. "I knew I could count on you. After Teresa--"_

_She immediately withdrew, glaring at him._

"_--after Teresa escaped, I knew I had to do it, too," he finished lamely. "I'm a worthless mage. I can't. . ."_

"_It will be fine, Jowan," said Lily bracingly, kissing his cheek. "We'll save you."_

"_I love you," he whispered, turning his face slightly to touch his lips to her's. "I'm so sorry for putting you through all of this."_

_Abigail cleared her throat. She did _not_ want to listen to this, not when she felt so lost in it all. "Ahem. Plan, anybody?"_

* * *

The Revered Mother looked up as they approached and scurried the young boy away. Her eyes passed over Abigail, Alistair, and Bear as if they were nothing new to her, then returned to Alistair's. When he motioned for Abigail to say what she wanted to say, the Revered Mother waved a hand towards a private sitting room and closed the door. "I am sorry," she said, taking a seat. Two Templars guarded the entryway, watching them with suspicious eyes. "I just prefer taking visitors in here than outside. There is always so much noise. . ." She gave them an apologetic half-grimace. "Welcome to the Chantry. Will you make a tithe?"

"What kind of payment is respectable?" asked Alistair. "We don't exactly have a lot of money."

"Fifteen bronze pieces would be sufficient," she said. Alistair fished the money out and placed it into the collection jar she held, to Abigail's horror. That was stupid! "Thank you. The Maker smiles upon those who help do His work."

_Yeah, I bet He does, you witch._

"Now tell me, is there anything I can do for you, child?"

"We're here to ask about the qunari you've chained up outside of the city," said Abigail, surprised at how calm her voice sounded in light of the thievery. "What has he done to warrant such foul punishment?"

To her surprise, the Revered Mother's face twisted into a scowl. "That creature killed an entire farmhold. Two men, a woman, and their children, thrown across the ground in a rage. With his bare hands he tore them asunder, painting the walls with the blood of the youngest. I left it to the Maker to decide his case, and caged him."

"How did you catch him, then?" Abigail asked shrewdly.

"There was no need, and that is the puzzling part," she said icily. "He merely sat down and waited for the soldiers to pick him up. He just said that he was 'finished' and accompanied them back. He did not deny it, and there is no question that it was perpetrated by that man."

"You're not leaving it to the Maker by putting him in a cage," Abigail argued. "You're leaving him for the darkspawn!"

"As is my right as the Revered Mother of Loathering," the old woman argued. "You did not see it, you child. You know naught of which you speak. What I did was a mercy compared to what the others wished."

"Don't call me a child," Abigail said forcefully. "I've gone through enough not to be called that any more."

"And yet you still are one, all of your experiences for naught," said the woman waspishly. "The creature is where he should be, and if the Blight takes him then it is too kind of a punishment for him."

"Revered Mother," said Alistair, stepping foreword, "you're not imposing the Maker's will. You're imposing you own. What we ask is that you allow the qunari to fight for us. If he dies in battle, then the Maker took care of it. But unless a snake slithers into his cage, if he dies it's your own fault. That's not doing the Maker's work: that's torturing a man."

"You dare suggest--?"

"We do," said Abigail. Bear sat obediently at her feet and tried to look wise. "It's very important you allow him to come with us. He could have broken out of his cage whenever he so wished, but he chose to wait for your decision. Does that not speak volumes about his character?"

"I only know what you have told me," she said.

"Have you even bothered to check on him?" Abigail asked, outraged.

"To make sure he hasn't escaped. To make sure he doesn't harass those around him. We don't feed nor water him. I'm surprised he's still alive."

"How long has this been going on?" Abigail cried.

"Twenty-two days," she said.

"Without food, nor water?"

"Qunari are a very resilient race. It would take an avalanche to beat them down, and they'll only get back up again."

"You talk like a torturer, and one who takes pleasure in it! Do your vows mean absolutely nothing to you?"

One of the Templar guards by the door took a step foreword as if he meant to straighten her out, but the Revered Mother waved him down. She looked hurt. She sat in silence for several minutes and Abigail could only glare at her, her jaw working, intent on doing whatever she could to free Sten.

How strange it was to feel a companionship with one you didn't even know.

These events almost seemed as though they were playing along the lines to a rehearsed play, and Abigail realized, in that instant, that she had _dreamed_ this entire moment during her small nap. She'd dreamed it, but couldn't remember. . . And now she knew that there was something else she had to do, something that would make it all worthwhile.

She knelt by the Revered Mother's knees—a revolting thought—and said in a small voice, "I am sorry, ma'am, but that's just how I see it. I understand you're scared and upset. The darkspawn are marching from Ostagar very soon and Loathering will be overrun within the week. The darkspawn will bring this entire land underneath it's Blight. My friends and I _kill_ darkspawn. To have a qunari indebted to us will increase our chances of succeeding. We are Grey Wardens, if that still has any meaning within these parts."

"You are. . .?" The Revered Mother's lips moved soundlessly and she looked up, her eyes swimming in unshed tears. "I will do you a favor and keep that a secret, then. Forgive me for my harsh words. The last few days have not been boding well with me."

"I understand perfectly," said Abigail, still in that soft-spoken voice. "Please release him and let him find his penance in killing those the Maker loathes." And then she said, because her dream was leading her on by the teeth now, "_Simi._"

Her eyes were wide. "You speak Elvish?"

"And dwarven, too, but not as well. Regrettable, but true." She shrugged as if it was an annoying, pesky thing. "Ma'am, I--"

She interrupted, as Abigail knew she would. "Don't bother. I. . . I do understand your need." She reached for her necklace and withdrew a small key from an inside pocket. "I give this to you, then. But this comes with a warning: be wary."

Abigail's fingers closed over the warm metal. "I will be. Thank you."

The Revered Mother sat back in her chair, looking wearier than ever before. "You look so familiar. . ." she whispered. Abigail stiffened: this wasn't part of the dream at all. The Revered Mother gave her a sad little smile and gripped her hand, glancing down at it momentarily as if she'd forgotten why she'd touched it in the first place. "Ah, yes. I understand now."

"Understand what?" Abigail asked cautiously.

The Revered Mother held her in her sights for a long time and just shook her head again. "You'll understand, too, before the end. Love will guide your way. Always remember that, when you are in doubt. May the Maker watch over you."

Abigail frowned a bit, then stood. She bowed. "Thank you for your time, Mother."

"Do be safe. You _must_ stay safe, especially in your current position. I'll send a letter immediately to Redcliffe, let them know to expect you. . ." She trailed off, mumbling to herself, and the three of them left the room.

Abigail clutched the key in her hand, a little disturbed. Alistair voiced her thoughts aloud: "She seemed to have recognized you. Do you know her?"

"No. . . I don't, and that's different. I'm not used to having a recognizable face."

As they left, Abigail handed Alistair the key; he in turn handed her back her ring, which she slipped on to the hand that had been in the Revered Mother's grasp. An idea struck her. "You don't think she was looking for a mage ring, do you?"

"There's a thought," Alistair muttered. "You gather too much attention with that thing. You should sell it at Redcliffe when you get the chance. I'm not usually one for black market trade, but this warrants it."

"Yes. . . I suppose. Though I can't seem to let it go. Haven't you ever had anything you loved as much, and hated, both at the same time?"

"A locket. Long story. Tell you later."

She laughed.

"Well, whatever it was, you managed to get us a qunari. He better keep to his promise, because--" Alistair did not go on, but Abigail could see where his thoughts were leading.

"He will," she said confidently. "Would it be really _weird_ of me to say that it almost feels like a sign from the Maker?"

"Yeah, kind of." He laughed, too.

* * *

Morrigan waited for them in the inn at a table all to herself, sipping a mug of water. Abigail wasn't surprised that she'd chosen to forgo any of the alcoholic drinks: she wouldn't touch them, either, because anybody with the ability to detect the scent of various alchemical roots and fungi would have their stomachs twisted at the smell of beer and wine, which smelled interestingly like the root of a woodland plant that made the one who ingested it perilously ill. The effects were not unlike those who imbibed too much alcohol, come to think of it.

Morrigan was drawing stares from every corner of the room, dressed as she was, and she paid little attention. She'd already chased off the bartender, it seemed, and many of the rowdier-looking men looked too intimidated even to come over and attempt to woo her with drunken hilarity or the promise of a good time. She stood as Alistair, Abigail, and the mabari entered, drank the rest of her water, and joined them. "Let us leave. Did you get the keys? Yes? Good. We may be able to salvage this--"

Abigail glanced over Morrigan's shoulder and felt her stomach turn to ice. "Let's go."

What she'd noticed had not gone unseen by Alistair, nor Morrigan. A group of soldiers in the corner nearest the bar were drinking and watching them with suspicious eyes; all wore the symbol of Teryn Loghain.

Bear, sensing the danger, stood in front of Abigail and watched them in turn. When they met his glare, he strode right up to their leader and raised his leg. Yellow urine, possibly a _stream_ of yellow urine, rushed from his glands and hit the man's metal boot with a hollow-sounding noise. He stood up, yelling in anger, and attempted to kick at him. Bear leaped out of the way, barking and snarling so fiercly that a few of the men's compatriots fumbled for their swords.

Abigail's darkspawn blade was drawn faster than she could have thought possible, it's tip fixed inches away from his throat. "You're going to leave him alone," she said matter-of-factually. "And you're going to leave us alone."

"Is that right?" he sneered. He was a tall, balding man with dark hair that creeped around his head in a type of mustache that made her want to tug at it. "Loghain set us up here to watch for you two. . . seemed to think you'd survived. Well, now you're going to pay. For King Cailan!" he roared, drawing his sword.

Before either could strike, a woman—red-haired, blue-eyed, wearing Chantry robes—stepped in between them. "Surely there is no need for violence, now, is there?" she asked in a light, pleasing Orlesian accent.

"They brought violence with them," said the leader, and he struck at Abigail.

She backpedaled, taking cover behind Alistair as he moved foreword, his shield already in place to deflect an incoming blow. Abigail yelled a Command, knocking the human fighters to the ground with a well-timed telekinetic blast. Bear stepped over the leader, who hadn't dropped his sword, and placed his open mouth over his neck, squeezing slightly. He dropped the sword and became very, very still.

"Now what do you say?" Morrigan asked peevishly.

"I—I--"

"Ahem."

"Drop your weapons," he squealed. "Drop 'em!"

"Very good," Alistair congratulated. "Aw, look at him, he's learning how to talk."

Abigail knelt next to his head and looked at him straight in the eyes. "You will go back to Loghain and take a message."

He nodded: he seemed to be unable to take a proper breath. "Yes!"

"Tell him that he's a fool if he believes the Grey Wardens are the true threat. Tell him we're about to take care of his darkspawn problem, and that we know the truth of what happened at Ostagar. You tell him that! Understand me? Good. Alistair, take their weapons away from them."

Alistair hastened to oblige, and only when all of the metal swords and the wooden bows were safely tucked away on a table did Bear loosen his literal deathgrip on the shaking man. "You may go now," Abigail said, allowing them to leave.

Morrigan waved. "Ah, such fun."

"I am glad blood did not have to be spilled here," said the Orlesian Chantry-woman. She watched them go, a slight frown of disapproval marring her beautiful face. Suddenly she seemed to remember them, and held out her hand for shaking. "Sorry. Please allow me to introduce myself: I am Leliana, on eof the lay-sisters here at the Chantry. And I am coming with you."

Abigail blinked. "And what makes you think that?"

She grimaced. "I know it sounds sort of weird, and I apologize, but the Maker told me to come with you."

"Uh. . . did He _talk_ to you? Did you hear voices?"

"What? Oh, no, I am not crazy at all, I assure you. I had a dream, and in the dream, I knew I was to help you against the darkspawn. Please, you must believe me."

"Well. . ." Abigail looked behind her for some support. Bear was already going up to her, rubbing his scent on her robes. For the first time, Abigail noticed a discarded backpack at her feet. It partially obscured a small bow and a pack of elf-flight arrows. A bulge in her robes she'd automatically taken as a wrinkle in her clothing suddenly solidified in her mind as the outline of a knife. "You certainly seem to have been waiting for me. . ."

"More crazy?" Alistair whined. "I thought we were all full-up."

"I don't know, Leliana. . ."

"If you leave me, I will only follow you," she said stoutly. "I can fight. I learned a few things on the road. Allow me to help."

Abigail was wavering. Was it possible two dreams were right? "Okay. I don't think I can sway you otherwise."

Leliana visibly relaxed, all tension draining out of her shoulders. "Well, that is good, then," she said, bending down to pick up her backpack. "I have my own money. It's not much, but I'm willing to pool my resources with yours. . ."

Morrigan disapproved. "Perhaps your head was cracked worse than mother thought. . ."

"We need all of the help we can get, Morrigan," Abigail said. _Even if she is one Archdemon short of a Blight, as it seems._

"Yes, yes, but this one's more like '_Oooh, pretty colors!'_ instead of '_I'm princess stabbitty stab, kill, kill!'_" Abigail threw him a look, and he shrugged modestly. "What? Just saying."

Bear barked.

"Leliana," said Abigail, "we're going to Redcliffe. But before that, we're freeing the qunari prisoner Sten and bringing him with us. Do you have objection?"

"No, I'm just relieved you have decided to take me along," said Leliana. She smiled, embarrassed. "But I'm afraid I didn't get your names. I was so intent on not looking like a fool than getting to know my future companions. I'm sorry."

"No problem, I understand," said Abigail, nodding. "I'm Abigail. This is Alistair, and Morrigan. This is Bear."

"Abigail. Alistair. Morrigan. Bear. I'm very sure I can remember that." She laughed, and the sound was as refreshing as a dip in a cool stream after a long hike. "Perhaps you can explain what we are going to do next? And allow me a chance to change out of my robes? I had a feeling those soldiers would accost you sooner than later, and did not wish to draw undue attention to myself." She chuckled.

"Go ahead and change. We're leaving very soon. We'll wait for you here."

Leliana nodded. "I will be right back!" She lifted up her backpack and made for the door. She turned back around and looked at each of them in the eye. "Thank you. Really. You don't know what this means to me."

Abigail watched her go and rubbed her temples with her knuckle. "Well, two people, second day out. I think we're doing great."

Morrigan sighed, and her fingernails crackled with static electricity.


	5. Road to Redcliffe

**Loathering, 1 day before the Battle of Ostagar**

Jowan looked out-of-place in simple clothing, as if he'd never worn such things in his life. His long, dark hair and his soulful brown eyes took in everything outside of his jail cell window, excited and filled with trepidation. Leliana unlocked the cell door with a simple, elegant key and placed his hot meal within. She could still hear Loghain and the Revered Mother conversing in angry tones outside, and she did not wish for him to know that the subject they were discussing was about him. She closed the door and locked it, preparing to leave.

"Thank you." The word was so unexpected, she turned around. He was looking at her, crossing to his meal. He began to eat the soup she'd prepared. "This is very good. The Revered Mother told me you prepare my meals."

"You're welcome," she said, a little uneasy. She closed the door leading out into the hall and sat in a chair across from his cell, which had been the seat of Teryn Loghain only minutes before. "Why did you do it? Why did you resort to blood magic?"

He sighed. "I wasn't the best in the Circle. I was going to be made Tranquil if I couldn't step up to it. It's how they work—they do it to the biggest, and they do it to the smallest. Being Tranquil is the worst punishment you can ever have. Some people just don't have that innate talent. And I met a girl there. . . well, I loved her. I wanted to escape with her. I wouldn't make her watch what would happen if they killed me like that."

"Tranquility serves the common good, though," Leliana countered. "You could have pressed yourself harder. Using blood magic is a dangerous path!"

He smiled, looking sick. "I hated it at first. Hated it, and loved it. And it doesn't matter any more, does it? They'll kill me soon at the Circle. Or make me Tranquil. My poor Lily. . . she probably hates me now."

Leliana felt part of her heart go out to him. "I'm sorry. But you're getting what you deserve."

"Do we mages get what we deserve?" he snapped, suddenly angry. "You Chantry people just sit there, acting all high and mighty, and all the time you're thinking you're doing the Maker's work by locking us in a Tower for things we can't control. You make us apologize for being mages. For being born with something! Just imagine having our life for just one second, only it's because you're born with red hair, or you're born with a certain color of skin. You tolerate us, and just barely. You think you know better, but until you understand everything that goes on in those Towers then you're just as ignorant as the rest of them."

"So tell me about it," she pressed. "Please. I want to know."

He barked out laughter. "It doesn't matter now. Nothing does. The love of my life rejected me, and Abigail. . . Ha! She hates me for what I did. I just got both of them in trouble. I promised her a farm, I promised her a life. . . They'll probably kill her. And Abigail is too powerful for them. First Enchanter Irving will make her Tranquil. I hope he just kills her."

"That is a horrible thing to say!" Leliana cried. "At least pray she lives!"

He looked up at her, a cruel, lopsided smile on his face. Through his matted black hair he said, "What do you think I've been doing, ma'am?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't see Tranquility as living."

"It's the worst kind of death," he said menacingly. "You see my people outside now, selling their honey and their sweets for low prices? Go and strike up a conversation with one. Just—just go. Leave me alone. I feel bad enough without arguing with you."

Leliana got up in a huff, suddenly angry, and was quite glad when Teryn Loghain and the Revered Mother came back. Loghain looked smug, as if he'd won some great battle, and gestured for both Chantry-women to leave him be. The door closed behind him, then locked.

The Revered Mother was furious. "A maleficar—in my church!" she cried, aghast. "Loghain better know what he is doing."

Later on, Leliana went to the markets to see the Tranquil. The Templars, armed with the knowledge that a blood mage was being housed in the Chantry, were more than rude to the Tranquil, who could no more argue back than they could give a discount. A woman with a redwood walking stick and cornstalk-yellow hair was in a heated discussion with one of the Templars, but Leliana caught only snippets of their conversation.

Then the blood mage was there, dressed in noblemen's robes, and he was standing next to the woman with a look of freedom on his face. The woman barely paid him any attention as he accosted the Templar she was talking to, and only glanced at his face once before angrily shaking her head and walking towards the Chantry-board to check the specials for the day. The Templar read a note in Jowan's hand, glared, and motioned towards two of his men.

They escorted him out of the village.

On Loghain's orders.

She followed them all the way to the edge of the village and watched them depart. Behind her, the village was in an uproar because the blood made Jowan had escaped.

* * *

**Campground, fifteen leagues from the outskirts of Loathering**

Alistair just wasn't going to get to sleep. He'd tossed and turned for a while by the warm campfire, their first since escaping Ostagar, but without the overriding excuse of exhaustion his mind just wouldn't quiet down. He kept thinking of Duncan, wondering how he died, and sometimes, yes, wondering if he was still alive out there somewhere, just as they were, convinced they were dead. He had to stop himself from following down that train of thought nearly as soon as it started again, because it only made the pain in his chest worse to bear.

Their campground was just a mishmash of conflicting personalities gathered around a small clearing in the trader's road. Abigail lay so close to the fire that he was sure she would catch a spark any second now, but the fire seemed to know enough not to touch her face with it's burning hands. Bear slept close up against her, rubbing into her ribs with his head; Sten lay further away, sleeping on a small clump of dirt. He was still dressed in the brown prison overalls he'd worn when they rescued him, but they'd seen fit to supply him with a sword. He declined the offer of a bed; Leliana, the crazy woman, lay quite peacefully a few yards away from Abigail, her red hair turning gold in the firelight; And Morrigan had made her own fire a ways away, demonstrating her antisocial tendencies once more.

It was nearly two hours past midnight, and even the witch was asleep. Alistair, who'd given up the prospect a long time ago, sat watch. Bear occasionally twitched in his sleep, he noticed, and Sten could mimic a rock perfectly as he dreamed or did whatever qunari do. Watching his companions seemed to be the only thing to do to pass the time, bored beyond belief, hating his thoughts.

Hours before they'd run into some more darkspawn as they left Loathering. It was a scout party according to Morrigan, and they hadn't been a part of the attack at Ostagar. If that wasn't a sign of the Blight, then he didn't know what was. Darkspawn don't send scouting parties, but having an Archdemon leading their army granted them new intelligence they normally wouldn't have been able to grasp on their own.

They'd been attacking a dwarven trader and his simple son on their way out. It was almost too easy to kill the darkspawn now. It made Alistair wish that Sten, Leliana (who had turned out to be an excellent shot with the bow), and Morrigan had been with them at the Tower of Ishall. Maybe they could have saved Duncan somehow.

After Bodhan the dwarf was on his way, they continued on, and on, and on, but not at the same pace they'd set out with from Ostagar. Sten ate and drank on the way, at Abigail's insistence. Her care for the creature was strange, because he didn't know her and she didn't know him. She ignored Alistair's questioning looks as she broke off a large chunk of her prized honey-bread and handed it to him.

They didn't talk much, besides Abigail informing Leliana and Sten of their next move. Leliana's voice rose into song a few times, to Morrigan's complete mortification, and it was with a spring in her step that she made her fire far away from the rest of the group.

Abigail twisted violently in her sleep. Alistair was broken out of his thoughtful vigil and turned to look at her. Sweat beaded on her brow for the next five minutes, her hands clenching and unclenching in the cold air. Her eyes opened suddenly, wide and intense, and she stared in the epicenter of the flames. Bear hadn't even stirred.

"Bad dreams?" Alistair asked darkly. He had only too good of an idea.

She passed a hand over her face, calming herself. "Yeah. . ."

He watched her for another moment, sighed, and went over to her with a small piece of salted meat he'd been nibbling on. She bit off a small chunk and handed it back. It seemed to calm her mind. She sat up. "You're beginning to feel the darkspawn," Alistair explained grimly, sitting down next to her. "You're too early to sense them just yet, but give it a few months. I'm only starting to feel them, myself. . . What did you dream about?"

"I think I saw the Archdemon," she said, shuddering lightly. "It was horrible. It felt like it was calling for something, rather us or something else, I don't know. It was so big, such a twisted perversion of the old dragons. I was always ahead of those in all of my classes, and I was always, _always_, interested in dragons and other magical creatures, but that was beyond everything. I don't know who I want beaten more—Loghain, or the Archdemon."

Before he could answer, she snorted. "Archdemon. If Loghain gets in my way, we'll just have to take him out, too. Personal issues can't be apparent in the Grey Wardens, can they?" She sighed.

Alistair had to muse on that for a moment. "I suppose so." He yawned. "I keep forgetting you're not used to this. To us. You're doing pretty well so far, though, but I bet you didn't learn all there is to being a Grey Warden. . ."

Well, she had to know sooner or later. Who better to tell her?

"Oh, no, I probably won't learn all there is even if I had lifetimes to learn it all." She sighed again. "I can tell from the sound of your voice that it's bad news and likely to hurt me. Get on with it."

He chuckled. "All right," he said, keeping his voice low so he couldn't wake the others. "Well, in addition to hearing the darkspawn and feeling their presence wherever we go. . . we _don't_ have to worry about dying at old age. We have thirty years to live, give or take, after our Joining, before the Blight takes over. Charming, isn't it?"

She blinked and stared at him, aghast. "Thirty years?" she mouthed. "That's all?"

He nodded. "I didn't take it so well, either, but it's a pretty small qualm compared to the bigger threat, right? It's just. . . You start to know it's your time, your time to go, I mean. You start having these dreams, worse dreams than you have now. When the first of the dreams come is when you go to Orzammar."

"The dwarven city? Why?"

"The Deep Roads are still filled with darkspawn." Alistair had to look away. "Duncan told me, in private, that he was beginning to have the dreams again. . ."

"And he was going to march to Orzammar, just like that, and kill as many darkspawn as he could before being taken out? Just like that?" Her eyes filled with tears.

Alistair swallowed to clear his throat. "Yes. . . yes, he would. I would have made the journey with him, to wish him farewell. . . He was more like a father to me than anybody I've ever met."

He wiped the corner of his eye, ashamed at the liquid gathering there. Abigail sighed and, a bit hesitantly, placed her arm around his shoulders and hugged him. "I'm sorry," she said, releasing him. "He was a very good man, but sometimes I have to remember how much he meant to you."

Alistair nodded. He'd never been hugged by a woman before, much less from somebody his own age, and never like that. "Heh. Thanks. I'd like to—I'd like to go to where he was born, you know, and make a memorial for him. At Highcliffe. I think he'd like that, but. . . I wish I had something—anything--to remember him by."

"You have your memories of him," she said kindly. "And you can share them with whomever you want. Share them with me, if you need to."

He glanced over at her, surprised to see that she was still looking at him, her light brown hair shown with streaks of red in the firelight. Her face was pale and impassive, strong and warm, but also cold as ice. She'd done a lot of growing up in the past few days, he noted. "Have you. . . have you ever lost anybody you're close to?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

A shadow passed over her light blue eyes. "I've lost everything," she muttered. "Everything you take for granted, Alistair, I have lost again and again, never even a hope to regain. I know what you're going through. . . and we're in this together. Might as well help out. I might just come with you to Highcliffe when this is all over. Duncan saved me from worse than death at the Circle."

"I think he'd like that," said Alistair. He figured it was his turn to hug her, but decided it probably wasn't appropriate. "I'm sorry, you know. That you lost so much."

"Every mage does. We survive and endure. . . but thank you. You're the second Templar to apologize to me for that." She smiled. "Tell me about Duncan. I don't think I can get back to sleep now, anyway."

They talked long into the night, their voices no more than a murmur in the winds, and he made her laugh with his stories of old. He began to feel the weariness seep into his bones two hours before dawn, and she stopped talking as soon as he yawned. "I'll complete the watch," she said, sitting crosslegged near the fire. "Go to sleep."

He closed his eyes.

Leliana woke just a little bit before dawn peeked over the edges of the trees. She stretched out her arms, thankful that the spot she'd chosen to lie on was free of stones and depressions. The fire had long since gone out, and she could see Alistair's sleeping face across from her on the other side of the pit. He certainly looked more relaxed than he had been the night before. Abigail was rummaging quietly in her pack for something with the help of Bear, and Sten was sitting up with his back as straight as a fire stick. Morrigan's fire had also gone out and she couldn't be seen, but a wolf sat watching Abigail expectantly with yellow canine eyes that mimicked the witch's perfectly.

The wolf got up and went to Morrigan's camp site, and as Leliana watched she shifted and changed into the witch herself, still fully clothed. She picked up her black hawthorn staff and walked back. She met Leliana's eye with a sneer, and she wondered at it.

Abigail greeted her with a strained, tired smile when she saw that she was awake, and Leliana offered to help with the cooking. Abigail paid attention to the fire, lighting it with a movement of her hand and keeping the embers from hitting them as they started on breakfast. Bacon sizzled happily on the pan once it was warm enough, and the smell was enough to warm Leliana's heart.

Alistair woke then, drawn like a magnet towards the smell of meat, and Leliana's stomach was making a song of it's own as she cooked. "So how did you all sleep?" she asked pleasantly when all of the food was dispersed around the group and they dug in.

There were a few noncommittal shrugs around them. Sten continued to eat his food, oblivious to her questions. Biting her lip from the awkwardness of it all, she turned to Abigail, who seemed like the nicest in the group, and asked, "Do you know about the blood mage who came to Loathering a few days ago?"

Abigail paused for a moment between bites and shrugged. "I think. Did you see him?"

She finished her bacon and looked at Leliana expectantly. Leliana nodded. "He was on the wanted posters. When some of Teryn Loghain's men passed through they carried him. They said his name was Jowan, and that he was a maleficar. . . but the Teryn had pardoned him. I thought that was very strange."

"Jowan is very good at getting other people to do what he wants," she said, nodding as if she were only commenting about the weather. "When did this happen, do you know?"

Leliana told her.

"They caught him faster than I expected, then. That was the same night Duncan took me from the Circle of Magi. But how could Teryn Loghain's men have captured him so fast before the battle at Ostagar?"

"They were messengers," Leliana explained. "And the Teryn was with them. He'd come back from an urgent errand to Denereim, he said. He interrogated the prisoner long and hard, and then he let him go. Did you know Jowan, by any chance? He mentioned an Abigail."

Abigail's reaction was all she needed to clarify: her knuckles turned white and she fixed Leliana with an unblinking stare. "What did he say?" she asked.

Leliana was beginning to wish she hadn't spoken at all. "I forget the direct context of the conversation, I was only handing him his food as he said it, but. . . he implied that you would be in trouble. With the Circle. He seemed to think you would be made Tranquil, and it was causing him great distress."

Abigail chuckled. "I suppose I better tell you all what happened before we meet him, then," she said. Her voice was surprisingly light, but her eyes were tight. "When I was younger, I had two friends: Teresa and Jowan. I met Teresa while they took me away from my home, and she was carrying a canteen she never drunk out of, but liquid sloshed inside of it. The Templars cut our arms with silver knives, which repels most demons, and placed our blood in a strong, magically-sealed vial. As they did this, Teresa slipped off. I learned only later what she did: she drank her own blood within the vial and replaced it with the blood of her old pet cat. The Templars never knew the difference."

Sten looked up. Leliana was nauseated. "How old were you?" she asked.

"Six."

Sten nodded approvingly. "She is smart, then."

"Is this the same Teresa we're going to go find, then?" asked Leliana.

Abigail nodded. "Anyway, as we got older Teresa was getting into more and more trouble. We all believed she would be made Tranquil, and not go through the Harrowing. So Jowan and I created a distraction. . . and she went. Just like that. She was gone. No goodbyes. They noticed she was gone during the headcount the next night.

"Of course Jowan and I were the prime suspects in her case. We were treated like dirt after that, and we never, ever spoke of it again. I was being held back, and made to teach remedial students. I grew in power, though, and Jowan was lagging behind still. I fashioned him an enchanted ring to help him concentrate. . . and got in trouble for that." Her voice began to sour: the injustice still rankled. "Finally, he began to get very. . . strange. He didn't like to be with me any more and would rather sneak out in the night than study for his upcoming Harrowing.

"That was when I first noticed Duncan, the leader of the Grey Wardens. He was recruiting the mages to King Cailan's army, and Wynne decided to go, as did Uldred. . . Their followers went, as well, and a number of Tranquil. They're all dead now. Anyway: First Enchanter Irving gave me a bit of a test in his office, a very hard test, and I passed it. Duncan was hiding in a wardrobe, watching me. I realized that only after I released myself from the medical area.

"The next night, Irving came to my bed, and I was taken upstairs to go through my Harrowing. It was. . . very brutal. You cannot trust your own eyes while you are taking that test, of that, have no doubt. I awoke in my bed, and there was Jowan, just standing over me and looking nervous. I thought he was nervous _for_ me, but he wasn't. I know now that he was. . . well, anyway. . .

"I went to Irving's office and talked to Duncan about the darkspawn, telling him I would accompany him back to Ostagar if Irving would allow it. Jowan accosted me, and I had to cut it short. I met the love of his life, apparently, a chantry initiate named Lily. They convinced me to steal of a Rod of Fire to melt the locks guarding the repository, but it didn't work. . .

"There is old magic guarding that place. Very evil magic, it felt like. I saw a statue that talked, gargoyles that moved and attacked you. There were even phantom wisps there, spirits of old, dead mages still guarding that place. I realize now it was only too easy to get through there, and now I know all of their defenses hadn't been set against us. It was a trap." She laughed. "It scared us witless.

"Finally, after much fighting, we got into the repository. I used the Rod of Fire on a magical artifact that doubled it's mana output, and the wall separating us from the cold, dead room was destroyed. It made such an explosion it was too much to hope that others didn't hear it. So we destroyed his phylactery and quickly as we could, and I destroyed Caterina's and Raphael's. My own, and Allan's, had been moved. . .

"We went upstairs. Lily and Jowan were so happy, but I was disturbed. Something wasn't right. I could smell it in the air. The mouth of the basement entrance was guarded by First Enchanter Irving, Knight-Commander Greagoir, and a battalion of Templars. All were ready to kill us. There was an argument, and I was sure I would die right then at Irving's hand. I shielded us all, prepared to fight my way out. . .

"And then they went for Lily.

"Jowan's rage was terrible. He stabbed himself in the hand, yelling in pain, and used his own blood to propel the Templars away like leaves caught in a windstorm. They could not resist his power, it was so great. I remember screaming at him to stop, and I ran at him, intending to _make_ him stop, so we could figure it out. . .

"He looked at me, and his eyes were like fire. He placed his hand over a small wound on my knuckle, just a scrape, and I felt the life leaving my body. I sagged against him, unable to conjure even a small flame to burn his clothes off. I was swept up in the storm and fell against Cullen, the only Templar I liked. We were all covered in blood.

"Words were spoken between Jowan and Lily. Lily hated him for what he did, and Jowan had to run. He didn't even look back. Hadn't I always told him not to? He stole a boat and propelled himself to shore.

"Irving was furious, and Greagoir doubly so. I was stunned. I had recovered quickly, but Greagoir had me pinned to the ground along with dozens of his finest Templars. He threatened to kill me. He was _going to._ Duncan stepped in then and forced the Right of Conscription, but by that time I didn't want it. I just wanted to kill Jowan. I'm going to, one day."

Abigail looked up. Everybody had been quiet except for her. She smiled a bit, as if it couldn't be helped. "Making a friend among mages isn't something to be taken lightly. We have nobody but ourselves. Violating somebody's trust as Jowan did mine isn't to be forgiven. I was beyond tears. Duncan didn't like the idea of me killing him, though, and I thought about it rationally. As a Grey Warden, I'm not allowed to have any petty wants such as for revenge or something less noble than keeping Ferelden safe and secure. So if I see Jowan, I will kill him. But I won't go looking for him, not when we have so much else to do.

"The end."

Sten spoke: "You were a fool."

Abigail nodded, conceding the point. "And I'm going to rectify that as soon as possible."

Sten nodded, approving, and continued to eat.

"I think that what you did was brave," said Leliana.

"Oh, please, you had to know it was somebody else pulling the strings," Morrigan drawled. "It's called being manipulative. I should know, I do it, too. Though I would've suspected the woman more than the man. 'Tis more fitting, I would say."

"Yes, you _would_ expect that," Alistair muttered., shaking his head in a sad sort of way.

For once, Morrigan ignored him.

Alistair turned to Abigail. "I don't blame you. You wanted to help out your friend, your best friend. So you did. You couldn't do any better than that. What that guy did was stupid. He shouldn't have betrayed you like that. But you learned, and you're getting better, right? But I wouldn't kill him. You should hand him back over to the Templars when you find him, because do you really think you can just kill him in cold blood?"

Leliana glanced at both of them, feeling saddenned by the turn this conversation had taken. Abigail had her head bent, contemplating her bacon, and it didn't look like she'd be getting up any time soon. "We shouldn't worry about that now," said Leliana bracingly, standing up. "We must get to Redcliffe soon, yes? Then let's not dilly-dally here longer than we must."

They packed up camp and were moving in the next fifteen minutes. They were a weird group, to be sure. Nobody seemed to want to walk with anybody else, so they were all just spread out in a snake-like way, walking the road single-file. Abigail preferred being in the middle, while Sten took point. Alistair stayed far away from Morrigan, who was most usually in the back, and ended up walking side-by-side with Abigail. Leliana walked with them sometimes, then up front with Sten. Bear, Abigail's mabari warhound, roamed freely.

* * *

"Tell me about your people, Sten."

"No."

Abigail snorted. Traveling made her happy, she'd only just realized, and talking about what happened at the Circle seemed to have brought her spirits up a bit. "Well! That certainly wasn't what I was expecting."

"Then get used to disappointment." Sten rarely yelled or changed his tone in any way, she'd been quick to learn. All he did was modify the volume. "People are not simple. They cannot be defined for easy reference in the manner of: 'the elves are a lithe, pointy-eared people who excel at poverty.'"

"_Oooh_, good one," she congratulated.

They were perhaps hours from Redcliffe. Morrigan had an uncanny knack to find paths through the Wilderness they wouldn't have found by themselves, cutting their transit time to nearly half it would take. They would be there before the night was over.

"Please," Sten grumbled. "Was there something you wished to know?"

"Yeah, actually—tell me about how you ended up in that cage."

"Surely you already learned the details from the Revered Mother in Loathering."

"But not from you," she said. "I fail to see how you would suddenly choose to kill an entire farmhold unless they did something horrible to you. I want to know why that was. I would also appreciate a warning if you ever decide to recreate that act with us."

"There was no reason. I just killed them."

"Do you feel any regret at all?"

"Either you have an enviable memory, or a pitiable life, to know nothing of regret."

"That's not a real answer."

"And you did not ask a real question, Grey Warden." It might have been her imagination, but his lips seemed to curl a little in distaste around the word.

She sighed. "Why are you even here, Sten?" she asked. "I set you free. Aren't you military?"

"I am."

"Then don't you have to report in some time soon?"

"Yes."

She felt like yelling in frustration, or laughing at his stonewalling. "Why don't you leave and report back? I'd hate for you to get in trouble on my account."

Another hesitating silence. "I cannot go home."

There was something in his voice there that made the matter off-topic. He was hurting, she realized then, and not from the long imprisonment. Abigail frowned for a long time, thinking that over. She said, "Then you can stay with us if you want."

Pause. "Thank you."

She pat his large, well-muscled arm. "No problem."

* * *

The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon when Bear let out a sudden bark and ran up ahead, crashing through the thick foliage with speed she couldn't have thought possible of such a hulking figure as he. "Bear!" she called, beginning to jog after him despite the ache in her feet. "Bear, wait up!"

"Wait!" Morrigan's command was like a whip. Abigail turned around, aware that the witch had stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide, nostrils flaring. The shock quickly changed into disgust. "Call your hound back, and let us proceed slowly. Draw your weapons."

They did as she bid, recognizing the command in her voice. "What do you sense?" Abigail asked, moving back to stand next to her. Bear trotted up next to her and nudged her hand with his cold nose. His tail wasn't wagging, and the fur on the back of his neck was standing on end. "Morrigan?"

"There is a powerful necromancer nearby," Morrigan said, closing her eyes and taking steadying breaths. "This place smells of undead."

"Zombies?" Alistair asked a bit sharply.

Abigail closed her eyes, steadying her mind. She blanched. "There it is. Something's wrong in Redcliffe. Something is _very_ wrong!"

"Elaborate," said Sten.

"Undead. They're corpses, reanimated with. . . very advanced blood magic. The necromancer is very powerful. We're safe for now--"

"--but we may not be soon," Morrigan finished.

Abigail moved up ahead of Sten, Bear at her heels. "I'm taking point," she said, and nobody argued with her. Morrigan continued to walk in the back, her hand stroking her black staff with undisguised nervousness. Necromancers set off an aura unlike any that mages usually encountered. They smelled of death and all things horrible to those who could touch the Fade, and it was a mark of how powerful this one was that it made even Morrigan skittish.

Alistair jogged up to stand next to Abigail. "You don't think—not the entire village--?"

Abigail shook her head, glancing at him. "No idea. There are leftover energies around here. The air is thick with it. But it's only passive, not active yet. The dead bodies, the corpses, haven't been reanimated in hours."

"Hours," he echoed.

Abigail drew her sword. "Just be cautious, huh?"

Hills climbed to their left, carrying a fresh stream of water. Abigail could hear the water carrying down into a waterfall some ways away. She could see the very top of a windmill over the hill, a landmark Alistair told her to look for. They were in Redcliffe.

It was beautiful. There was a house to their right, lonely-looking and abandoned, but there was a peculiar aura emitting from a large oak tree overhanging the roof. It was _calling_ her. She jogged over, suddenly excited, because she could feel the residue of powerful magic there. No, not powerful, she realized. . . but familiar.

It was a silver necklace with a charm on it, half-hidden by still-damp leaves that had fallen from the tree. She brushed off the dirt with her thumb and felt a small smile crease her lips, tears come to her eyes. The charm was in the symbol of a monkey.

"Teresa was here," she said, in response to the other's questioning looks. She placed the necklace around her neck. "I hope she's still okay. . ."

They walked a bit further. The village below them was still alive, but barely. Scorch marks on the grass marked the main communal area. Castle Redcliffe was quiet in the distance.

A scout was waiting for them on the bridge crossing over the waterfall. "Oh good! You're still alive!"

"What happened here?" Alistair asked.

"Undead. They've been pouring out of Castle Redcliffe every night, and each time they've gotten worse. There's been no word from the arl. It's been torture on the men—come, come, you'll see. I'll bring you to Bann Teagan."

He led them to the Chantry at the bottom of the cliff, passing numerous men and women who were either hurt or crying. The Templars had a haggard, weary look about them. Some slept on the ground.

Abigail would never forget the sight of a young girl in the Chantry, her brown hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her arm was a sickly-green color, poisoned beyond help. It stemmed from a human bite mark on her bicep. She kept moving.

Bann Teagan stood in the very back of the Chantry, running his hand through shoulder-length red hair that glimmered in the light. He looked up as they approached. Laugh-lines around his face had almost completely faded, replaced by a hardness that could only come from a man at war.

"Return to your post," he told the scout, nodding his thanks. The smaller man wasted no time in leaving.

"We were looking for Arl Eamon," Abigail said, pressing to the point. "But. . . what _happened_ here?"

"Horrible, dreadful things." Bann Teagan was frowning. "It was two nights ago when Castle Redcliffe suddenly went silent, and the corpses poured from the gates. They've attacked in greater numbers since then, always at night. . . we're preparing for our final defense tonight. The arl is still in there, and Lady Isolde. Connor."

"What can we do?" Abigail asked.

Teagan ran a practiced eye over their party, then suddenly blanched. "Alistair?"

"I'm here. . . Uncle Teagan," said Alistair. "I'm going to help."

Something like triumph flickered in Teagan's eyes. "You and I are going to talk after this is over."

Alistair nodded. "I know."

Teagan nodded, then hugged him. "Good to see you're alive."

"Do you have any mages?" Abigail asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. "We might need the help."

Teagan glanced down at the necklace she was wearing. "Ah. So you know Teresa."

"Where is she?"

His expression was sad. "She went up to the castle after the first attack, at dawn. Nobody's seen her for two days."


	6. Ready for Dead

_I'm pausing the tale here to draw your attention to various key points in our adventures: Firstly, Abigail was becoming more comfortable around Alistair and Morrigan, intoxicated by the freedom the Circle of Magi had never given us. A mabari war-hound imprinted on her almost immediately, showing her deep and innate connection with the natural world. Things continued to go right for them even though they didn't know it. Abigail convinced Sten to fight for them and Leliana, after my 'escape,' had a dream that led her towards them like, as she jokingly says now, "A bee to a flower."_

_Secondly, Teresa was in Loathering after evading the Circle for more than her fair share of years. She claims she left a necklace there for Abby and I when she passed by the first time, tuned specifically for our auras (I **still** don't know how she did it, and she won't spill) and that after she read about my arrest on the Chantry-board she took it up and went back to Redcliffe as soon as she could without drawing too much attention to herself. What she didn't know was that Loghain had traded with the Dalish Elves in the area, and they spirited me to Redcliffe with a swiftness that could only be magical: I arrived there within that same day. She, within two._

_Thirdly, everybody believed all the mages at Ostagar were dead. I honestly believed the reports, and I believed Loghain when he recruited me. Oops. But Wynne was still alive, and Uldred was, too. You just can't kill people of their power. I used to think Wynne was just a dainty little flower better spent teaching than actually performing magic. I will never, ever think that again. Even during our little drama-fest the two of them were making their way blindly through the Korcari Wilds, hurt and hungry. They wouldn't make it back to the Circle for another four months._

_So much pain, so much suffering... but some light, too, somewhere in there. _

_Just so you know, Abby found me. Then she found Teresa._

_They weren't happy reunions._

_As I sat behind the dusty bars of a prison I would never escape, weakened from a prolonged torture session by courtesy of the lovely Lady Isolde, I could feel a ripping in the Fade. We never feel **anything** unless we reach out and search for it, but it reached the innermost part of my being and shook me with a rotten odor deeper than any corrosive poison. I knew, immediately, without a single doubt in my being, that I was about to come face-to-face with a bane of mages: a necromancer of such power I shivered._

_I was left alone for two days. No food, no water. Only the screams the first day, heard even in my damned cell underground. The power rested in the day, rose during the night. My powers didn't even register compared to this demon's, and I was overlooked—or so I thought. But I'll never forget what happened during that time frame._

_Reeling from the aftershock of the first of the dead uprising, I was literally going insane. Finally the powers quieted as dawn peeked over the horizon, but I could still feel it there, unseen and indomitable, preparing for another assault. I was in a corner, in a fetal position, my own dried blood decorating my face and clothing in a gruesome manner. It was dark in here, and cold, so I could be easily overlooked. I jerked madly as a gate shut somewhere to my right, opposite the one exit from this place, and I heard a slight, stealthy figure making their way across the cobbled ground._

_I thought it was the necromancer, and, paralyzed by fear, I could only watch in fear as I waited for the figure to cross my cell. It was female, and she was muttering to herself. "Never enough," she was saying. "All of these fortifications and they leave an entryway an idiot could get through—which explains why I'm here. But how to get there. . . Hmm. . . This place is filled with too many bones. I wonder how many rotting and decomposing corpses the arl let sit here after he was through with them." She seemed to giggle at the thought. I heard her rough, labored breathing, and I realized it was Teresa, coming to the rescue._

_She stopped in front of my cell, but she didn't face me. She continued to look through the door, studying it, taking deep, calming breaths. She was shaking. "Can't **breath** in here," she was muttering, holding her chest. She glanced into my cell with detached curiosity, seemed to take my inert body as a rotting corpse, and sighed, humming a small tune under her breath. "Fire," she said, "and Water and Earth. Yes, yes, I'd like to see this sodding creature go up against that."_

_When Teresa's nervous, she often talks to herself. How much she talks is in proportion to how great her fear is. I have an inkling that she was beginning to go a little crazy, too, with all of that power crackling in the air, stinging our minds like lightning bolts. _

"_Can't do a Shield yet, probably should have asked Abby—yeah, no time for that now. Hmm. . . Fire's fun and destructive, and everything here is pretty much dead anyway, so Fire it is. . . Or wait, won't it kill me if I use too much? Naw, that's what I got the—yup, we're good. We are. . . good."_

_She continued to contemplate the door._

_She sighed. "Teresa," she stabbed her redwood staff in the stone for emphasis, "doesn't like."_

_She tied up her long, yellowed hair behind her head in a sloppy pony-tail and opened the door with a hand that trembled violently._

_I wanted to shout at her to run, to hide, to **get me out**_**! **_Only later did I learn that the necromancer was always aware of me from when She first possessed the boy and was exerting Her own power over me, forcing me to submit. She never knew about Teresa, but She found out pretty quickly. I heard far-off, distant explosions, and then. . ._

_Nothing. The power stayed, and I was forced deeper into my mind, allowed only to think for myself during the night as She extended her reach to the multitudes of corpses under Her command._

_The wait was terrible. Somewhere out there a village of people were fighting for their lives, and they were losing._

_**

* * *

**_

Abby gathered up as much information about Teresa from Bann Teagan as she could as they went about their preparations. Word among the men was growing about a troup of seasoned adventurers aiding the village, and she was often met with half-hopeful faces as she crossed the fields outside, but they would grow in shadow again as they watched the sun that was rapidly descending over the sky. The corpses liked to attack at night, and this night, this final night, was going to be worse than ever.

"I honestly didn't know about her until that day, my lady," Teagan was saying. He was intense and focused, totally aware of his surroundings. During their conversations his tone often held a slight flirting edge, and Abby couldn't help but respond in kind. He had a hand on her shoulder now, surveying the communal area with a sad look on his face. "I figured if she could get us out of this mess, then I wouldn't turn her over to the Knight-Commander here. After living here so long, unnoticed, I thought she had a power greater than any other. I watched the castle when she set off in the morning, looking for change. I had scouts all along the borders. The courtyard was in flames. The fire died down a little while later, and then there was nothing. I fear she fell."

Abby felt like a dark hand were seizing her heart, squeezing it in her chest. "No other sign?" she asked numbly. "No other sign?"

Bann Teagan shook his head, and a shadow of sadness crossed his features. He pat her shoulder once with his hand, then let it drop. "She must have been a great friend for you, but they only way you can help her now is to save her home." His voice lowered. "I'm. . . sorry." He walked away, joining Alistair on the side, leaving Abby there sad and alone, her world overturned.

In the manner of the Amells, her mind began to work. There would be time to grieve and time to have anger, but she knew, somehow, that being mad wasn't going to be the answer here. People said anger would give you strength on the field, but they were people who didn't know what the sod they were talking about. No, you could only fight with a clear, tranquil mind. Out of everything the Circle, and Irving, had taught her, this was key.

She knew eyes were on her, half-hopeful, half-resenting. They didn't like mages, but going into battle without one was a folly on the most epic of proportions. She and Morrigan would be irreplacable on their team, as long as they stayed back, behind some form of shelter, and used their range spells for maximum effect.

Abby caught the eye of a young girl sobbing in a corner just outside of the Chantry's doors. She was young, maybe about her own age, and to see her crying her eyes out like that made Abby feel suddenly understood, like this woman – she wasn't a girl, not any more – knew what it was like. But abby was the stronger, because she _had_ to be.

She almost turned away and left her to her weeping. Almost, but not quiet.

_What is the duty of the strong, if not to protect the weak? _

Abby went to her, sitting down beside her. It was a mark of her grief that the other woman didn't flinch from her touch. "I'm sorry," said the girl. "I-I'll try to be more quiet."

Her name was Kaitlyn, and she was crying because her brother Bevin had run off somewhere after their mother died. "I-I haven't seen him since yesterday! Not even a body! B-Bevin—oh, my Bevin! She t-told me to take care of him."

"Shush, shush," Abby said soothingly, rubbing her shoulder the way Teagan had been doing a while before. "We'll find your brother. What does he look like? Where did he used to hang out?"

"Sh-short with brown hair and grey eyes," she whimpered. "He has my nose." Abby fixed Kaitlyn's nose to her memory. "He and Owen always liked each other. . . O-Owen was even going to teach hi-him how to be a blacksmith one day. . ." She sobbed and could not continue.

There were a plethora of issues in the town of Redcliffe. First and foremost was the state of the soldier's weapons. Owen's daughter, a handmaiden to the Lady Isolde, was still in the castle and Owen refused to work when he had reason to believe his only kin was dead and gone. He was the best and _only_ blacksmith in the town that hadn't been killed that first or second night, and from the rumors of things he'd been getting himself drunk in his home ever since, locked within his place and crying over his long-lost daughter.

A lot of the villagers, seeing Owen's grief, had decided to leave the fighting up to other people. But they couldn't escape, and so they only cowered in the inn up the hill. Abby sent Leliana up there to convince who she could to join the cause, figuring rightly that she would be the most charismatic of the group. A dwarven warrior, Dwynne, had refused to fight as well. As Mayor Murdock had said, getting Dwynne to fight for the cause of Redcliffe would bolster the others up effectively.

A war was as much about moral as it was about swords. For a moment she was back in the Circle, learning at the feet of First Enchanter Irving back in his office, drinking tea. "You think you know everything there is about human nature in these walls, child," he said once, during a memorable lesson. "But you do not truly see, not until you're out there, fighting for your life. Not until you're commanding others underneath you, as responsibility for their lives as your own. Why do people fight, Abby?"

"Because they feel the need to," she'd replied dutifully. "Because. . . sometimes you have to fight. Glory in battle--"

"Stop," said Irving. His eyes were closed, as if she'd disappointed him. She leaned foreword, eager to hear his explanation. "Honor is of no use to the dead."

Abby was silent for a long moment, then nodded. "Of course."

"Some fight for it. Others don't care for it. So _why do people fight?_"

She didn't know, but something _clicked_ in her head then, something that should have clicked a long time ago. "Love," she said. "They fight for love."

"It doesn't matter what they love. A woman, a man, a dog, or gold — they fight for it. They fight for the hope that they can preserve that which they love. Why would you fight, child? Would you willfully go kill another being unless you were forced to?"

"If they threatened what I love, I could do anything," she said. "But. . . I would hope it wouldn't come to that. I don't want to kill people."

Irving had looked at her with those eyes of him, seeming to scan her very thoughts, and nodded sadly. Now, older and wiser, Abigail realized what that look on his face meant. And she knew that she had that same look on her face, that same, unavoidable sense that she was about to kill something tonight. It wasn't going to be a darkspawn, either. It would be a man, a _dead_ man, possibly women, possibly some children, too.

The only way to kill a corpse was to either burn the body or sever the head. She didn't bother telling this to Bann Teagan, because he'd already worked it out after about ten minutes into the first attack.

Abby stood up, leaving Kaitlyn where she was, and began to make her way, alone, through the common grounds and towards where she knew Owen's shop was. Her group was spread out all over the place. Morrigan was out collecting local flora and fauna for some sort of 'Soulrot Bomb' she was planning (Abigail would pay close attention to this, and learn how it was made for the future) and Alistair and Bann Teagan were in a close, family-like talk over at the side. Bear was laying in the sun, seeming to know that he would have to rest for a charge at night time, but when she beckoned to him he stood and slinked over. She noticed his hackles were raised a slight bit, confirming her theory that he could feel the necromancer's aura in the air still. Sten was sitting cross-legged, away from everybody else, but he also got up when she gestured to him: she would need his imposing presence at Owen's, and she also needed him fitted for armor. Leliana was, as her orders, still at the inn convincing the others to give up their lives.

Abby worried about them all.

"Sten," she said in greeting when the qunari came over. He bowed his head in respect. "We're going to go visit the blacksmith."

"Good," he grunted, and fell in line behind her.

If only the rest of the world were that easy.

She was soon arguing with a door. . . and winning. "If you do not open this door I will break it open!" she called into the lock. She closed her eyes, waiting, gathering herself for a concentrated mental attack on the hinges of the doors. Before her mental count reached five, the door unlocked. Her shoulders relaxing as she released the power building up in her chest, she opened the door and stepped in.

It smelled like a brewery, and Bear didn't like that at all. She could almost feel his mental canine wince as the fumes hit, accentuated by the scents of a long-dead forge. Sten growled a bit in his throat when he noticed Owen by the back, sipping at a mug of beer. He burped. "I opened the door, you damn witch," he sneered, going cross-eyed as he attempted to keep her in focus. "Make your demands and leave in peace."

"I will not leave in peace while you don't do your duty to these men," she said harshly. "Look at yourself. A damn drunkard is what you are! You're getting people killed--"

"Doesn't matter!" he yelled. "My girl. . . my little Valena. . . she's still up there, see? And the Bann, he can't send nobody up there. Rumor is a little witchy like yourself tried it, and it didn't go over so well." He hiccuped. "Don't you go prattling on about _duty _to me, your witchy-ness. I ain't havin' it!"

"I don't think you understand," Abigail said coldly. She was oddly detached, the mention of her dead friend ringing hollow in her ears. "I think you're wallowing in your own self-pity because your precious girl is up there. Ever stop to think that if we win this last battle we can press on to the castle, and retake it? Ever think that your kid's body might be up there? Do you even _know_ what corpses feed on? Do you?!"

Abigail took a few steps closer, her nostrils flaring at the smell. "The reason we eat is to take energy from dead animals. That necromancer up there can't afford to give the corpses all of their energy, so they _take it!_ Normally from each other. They bite themselves, replenishing themselves with their rotting flesh. Do you want that to happen to your kid, Owen? _Do you?_ Imagine that she's still alive, forced to watch all of that. Wouldn't you give your all to get her out of there? And if she'd dead, wouldn't you rather I made her at peace? You short-sighted, stubborn old fool! Your _laziness_ could have the entire village on their knees, begging like dogs to that power up there! Throw away the damn ale and talk some sense."

Owen blinked, his knees wobbling dangerously underneath him. The beer fell from cold hands. "I-I didn't know that."

Abby felt some her of coldness disperse a little, and it was with a slightly more comforting tone that she said, "I won't attack you, or force you to help this village, Owen. You would only endanger us all. But after this fight I'm going to the castle to kill the necromancer. If you could help, then perhaps we could look for your daughter."

"No—no!" He staggared towards her, keeping his balance through some paradoxal amount of will. "You better _promise!_ You promise to find my girl and I'll make your weapons for you!"

Sten sniffed. "Can we even trust him to know which end of a hammer to hold?" he asked dryly.

Owen looked at him, indignant. "I may be drunk, but my job is easy, qunari. I've been in the forges since I was just a lad of three summers."

Abby believed him. "We promise to find your daughter."

he nodded, satisfied. "Good. Well, go tell Murdock to bring his boys here. . . I'll see what I can do." He turned away, grumbling about lighting some fires.

"Is Bevin here?" she asked.

"No."

"Give me armor for Sten. He's going to need it."

Owen turned around, running a practiced eye over Sten's body. He lumbered over and rolled a piece of twine over his fingers. He began to take a measurement of his shoulders, his waist, his arm length. "Damn qunari," he burped. "Bigger 'n us, all the time."

"Yes," Sten said matter-of-factually. "We're hygienic, too."

Abby decided to leave him in the good care of Owen and, patting his arm, she left, Bear at her side. They were both grateful for the fresh air, even though it smelled like a battlefield. She told Murdock about Owen's sudden willingness to help and had the pleasure of seeing a sudden smile grace his loud, boisterous face. "Good!" he crowed. He rushed off then to inform the Knight-Commander, and one of the men close by, an archer, winked at her.

Owen loved his daughter. It had been easy to manipulate him in his drunken state to equip the paltry force. Dwynne seemed like another matter entirely, though. He was a dwarf with a team of mercenaries at his command, apparently just passing through. They'd refused to fight so far on pure principle, since it wasn't their village and they simply didn't care. Abby was determined to find a reason for them to care.

She probably should have brought Sten with her, just in case, or Alistair. Hell, even Morrigan would have been better for what she was about to encounter. Dywnne's house was locked, as she'd expected, and it took only another threat of bursting it down with magic that the lock finally clicked open. She came in warily, an arcane shield swathing her body in a pale light that would turn away most weapons until she either released the spell or ran out of mana to keep it going. She'd never perfected the spell, but they didn't know that.

Dwynne's group was waiting in the middle of the too-small house, sitting on boxes and eating like they just didn't care. . . and they probably didn't. It looked like she'd disturbed them in the middle of a poker game. Dwynne, a surly, red-headed dwarf, was glaring up at her. "Something you need?" he asked impolitely.

"You need to fight for Redcliffe," she said.

"No sodding way."

Abigail wasn't going to put up with resistance from a stubby little knee-high. "Yes, you will," she said, matching his tone with cool, icy temper. Bear's hackles were all the way up. "Because fighting as a team is better than fighting alone, where you have more chance of dying. Do you want to die tonight?"

It was, perhaps, one of the best debates she'd had since Teresa had left. Dwynne was adamant. He was a mercenary by trade, and therefor he loved money. Unfortunately, she was neither rich nor well-versed in the art of persuasion. "How much do you want?" she asked him after coming to this sad conclusion.

Dwynne did a show of looking at his boys, measuring the worth of their lives, and he turned and smiled as he devised a price that made her blanch. "Eight sovereigns, and not a bronze less," he said.

A muscle was jumping in her jaw. "Five sovs, or no deal."

"Then I'm afraid it will have to be no deal, sister. . ."

"Oh, it will be," she promised. "You can either get out of here, your numbers sorely decimated by the hordes of undead impeding your way, not a bronze richer than you were when you came here, or you could fight alongside us and _earn_ those sovereigns."

He gave her a long, speculative look, then snorted. "Looks like I just got one-upped by the uplander," he drawled, chuckling. "All right. Fine. Five sovereigns."

"To be paid for at the end of the battle," she said.

His eyebrow twitched. "Why?"

"I'm not used to the customs of any outside the Circle of Magi," she admitted, "and therefor I don't trust you yet. If I did, I would give them to you now, but unfortunately I can't. If you're still alive, you will get your money, Dwynne. See you in the fight."

She turned on her heel and walked out. Dwynne's house was situated on a small pier running over the borders of the lake the waterfall ran into, and the wood felt unsteady on her feet. She longed to get in the water and do a few training runs, and perhaps she would, but there were still other matters to look over. The most important ones.

Bevin was still missing, and they had no real plan against the undead.

"They came from the mouth before, near the windmill you came out of," Teagan had said, pointing to the small pathway that brought together the traveller's road and the arl's road. "It's a weak defensive position and they know it. All we have to do is hold them off there, but we leave our own shores unattended, which we found out last time.

"They flanked us, coming in from small boats on the waters. We were nearly overwhelmed then. We fought until morning, and they all suddenly dropped. The necromancer's power wanes with the sun. We may use it to our own advantage."

Abby thought about this now, calculating. There was a simple strategy she'd read in a book long ago about this sort of thing, only slightly different. There were no shores in the battle, but caves previously thought to be dead-ends. The defenders were, of course, slaughtered.

Almost on a whim, she broke through the lock of the General Convieniance Store with magic and entered the dank, smelly room. Bear cocked his head and followed her. Her mouth pulled into a smile when she found what she was looking for. "Ah, this will be fun," she muttered, and left.

Morrigan met her after she gave the good news to Murdock. "That blasted woman is singing in the bar," Morrigan said, her lip curling in distaste. "_Singing._ When they refused she set up in a corner and—ugh, the insufferable insanity. Why did you let her accompany us?"

_Because the Maker told me to?_ "Because I have a feeling she'll be of great use to us, in a practical manner," Abby said cautiously. She knew she was treading dangerous waters here. "She may grate your nerves raw, Morrigan, but we need an archer, and others seem to react more favorably to her presence than to ours. We need that one weapon."

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might that be, pray tell?"

"You are no good at persuasion," Abigail said. "At least, not to men whose brains aren't in their. . . well, anyway, we both rely on either intimidation or our own seductiveness to get what we want. You scare people. I probably do, too, but in a different way. Leliana is a genuinely nice girl by the standards of others, and as long as we use her properly and treat her well, our way will be easier."

Morrigan huffed, but she obviously understood. Abby felt bad for it, though. Talking about Leliana like she was a product or an ally to be kept through manipulation of her emotions wasn't how she wanted to do things. It seemed like an awful, Templar thing to do. Morrigan respected strength and cunning, though, and Abigail would have to be careful in settling the inevitable arguments that would spring up between the two in the future.

No matter her feelings, she felt Morrigan's respect for her rise. "You're more manipulative than I thought," she said wryly. "But if the pratting girl asks to do my hair, I am drawing the line."

"Why would she want to do your hair?" Abigail asked quizzically.

"Oh, you wouldn't have unnatural relationships in the Circle, would you?" Morrigan laughed, and it rose the hairs on the back of Abby's neck. "Mother told me about them, and I always found them distasteful. But the Chantry-woman radiates it. For once I'm hoping I'm wrong."

Abby was getting very confused. "What?"

"I'm just saying. . . Oh, wonderful." Leliana called out and waved to them, jogging down the cliffside. Morrigan sighed. "What _is_ it?"

"I convinced the bartender," Leliana said breathlessly, a smile on her face. "And a few of the men who quit. Ten more recruits. I better go tell Murdock, before that mustache of his loses it's splendor."

"Tell him I found oil in the General store. Place it around the mouth and let me light it. Instant trap."

She laughed and ran off.

Morrigan sighed again.

Alistair joined them after a while, claiming that they better practice some battle strategy before the fight. "We've never fought as a real team before, only once," he said. "If anybody has any weak spots or tendencies, it's better to know now than when we're actually fighting for our lives."

Abigail agreed with him, and she fetched Sten from Owen's. He was wearing a restrictive mail plate with a steel helm that fitted him quite snugly. He'd been given a new broadsword. Abby was glad he was on their side. Next came Leliana. They were all together again.

A space was quickly cleared for them next to the Chantry, where there was small land. They stood around and discussed their strengths and weaknesses, though Morrigan found it a bore.

Abby: "I have no staff, but that doesn't stop me from performing powerful magic. If I begin to run out of mana, or if I am in trouble, I'll signal with an upward shot of fire. I can ensnare a target in dry ice, killing him from the burns, but it depends on the fortitude of those I'm attacking. I took out an ogre with my fire and ice spells, so don't worry about protecting me. I can heal, also, but I'd prefer to be close enough to touch the target I'm healing. If I concentrate, I can channel continuous energy into a faltering person. Sometimes I'm told it can be overbearing, but you'll have to endure it if you wish to survive. I can also hit targets with a wave of muscular weakness, but I'm not sure how that will work on the undead."

Alistair: "Sword and shield for me. Uh, injured my right knee when I was a kid, haven't been able to run very fast in full armor since. I'm a good defense-man, but I'll go on the advantage. I have a tendency to find blunt objects with my head. Right-handed." He abruptly closed his mouth.

Sten: "Give me a target and I will take it out," he said in a tone that dared anybody to disagree with him. "I am a warrior of the Beresaad and do not give up easily. I'll only stop fighting when I'm dead." He paused for a moment, as if evaluating his fighting style. "Stay out of my way," he added. "It's better that way."

"Oh, because you're too good for us, right?" Alistair challenged.

Sten gave him a dead serious look. "Because one of those blunt objects that find your head may be the head of my enemy."

Alistair shut up after that.

Morrigan: "Oh, the usual." She was fondling lightning with her fingertips. "I know aggressive magic. Controlling the elements is as easy as breathing, I have no problems with that. Let's just move on."

Abigail coughed politely. "Aren't you a shapeshifter as well?"

Morrigan didn't roll her eyes, but barely. "You would be a fool not to notice it."

"Yes, but what shapes can you change into? So we don't accidentally _shoot_ you?"

"Hmm, valid point," Morrigan conceded. "But my list may go on forever. If the animal has yellow eyes, look first."

And she proceeded to change into a mirror image of Bear. Her stuff hit the ground with a light thud disproportionate to its size. Sten snarled at her and Alistair wiped his eyes to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Morrigan and Abby looked calmly at each other, and Abigail felt a sudden desire to do that, to learn how to do what she did. After all, what better symbolizes freedom than changing into whichever shape you want?

Morrigan's form flowed back into that of a human, still fully-clothed, her hair still in the same place. "Unless you can see me," she said, "Don't shoot the animals."

Leliana: She squirmed a little bit in embarassment. "I've picked up a few things, here and there," she said evasively. "I'm quick and flexible, and I'm a very good shot with the bow and arrow. If it comes to close-quarters fighting, I can use my daggers. I don't like prolonged fighting, though. And I've never worked with a mage before. It will be interesting, yes?" She flashed a smile at Abby, who couldn't help but return it. Morrigan sighed again.

Bear: He stood on his hind legs facing Abby and placed his paws on her shoulders to help him stand up. Panting happily in her face, he licked her neck. She couldn't help but laugh as he applied more and more pressure, almost in slow motion, and forced her to sit down before she toppled. For a moment all of his hairy mass was on her, screwing with her vision, but he hopped off and began to lick her face. She threaded her fingers through his inky-black fur and began to pet him.

"Well," Alistair said, "that's all said and done. Now we just need a strategy."

"Easy enough," Sten said. "Men in front. Women behind." Was it just her, or did his lip curl slightly around the 'women' word? "I'll stay on your left, and you protect the dog with your shield-arm. Have the mages on either side, protected. Give the archer a spot on the windmill where the arms can give her moving cover."

"We'll pour grease at the mouth," Abigail said, crossing her arms a bit in preparation. "A small flame from me will light it up. I'll wait until most of the corpses are over the line, so we can cut off their advancing and retreating."

"A sound move," said Sten. "And then?"

"Slaughter them."

If Caterina had seen her then, she would have been amazed.

"There are wooden fortifications at the mouth we can use for cover," Abigail continued. "Every mage should be assigned a guard, I think. We're forgetting about the Templars. Let them press on ahead. Let the guards press, too, but stay behind a bit from the main force. That way they're still making a difference and keeping us from dying at the same time."

Bear sat down at Abby's feet. There was no doubt he wouldn't let her out of his sights. Alistair, with some trepidation, volunteered guard duty for Morrigan. "Sten will do better up front," he said.

"This sounds like it's going to be a wonderful battle," Leliana said happily.

It was only going to be wonderful if they lived through it, but Abigail didn't tell her that. The mood was starting to shift from sullen hopelessness to a real charge of anticipation. Abigail felt it in her body, and for the first time that day she looked up towards the sky and fervently wished the sun would sink faster.

There were still things to do, of course. After they memorized their plan (it wasn't hard) they rejoined Bann Teagan and helped him enable another defensive perimeter around the Chantry, which would be the first target for the corpses arriving from the waters. Watchmen were put on the windmill, the inn, and the Chantry, the three tallest buildings in Redcliffe. Meanwhile, Abigail went on a search of her own and finally found Bevin, Kaitlyn's missing brother.

She hadn't meant to find him, but Bear had gotten excited and run off again. Fearing the worst, she followed him up the deck over the water until he began to paw and scrape on a door. Without hesitation Abby broke the lock and drew her sword, entering the home with quiet footsteps. "Hello?" she called.

There was a sudden movement in the opposite room. Heart pounding, she angled the sword towards the noise and began to draw on her magic. For what, she didn't know. "Show yourself, or I light this room on fire!" she yelled.

"O-Okay!" a strangely muffled voice spoke. "I'm coming out."

The closet in the corner opened and a little boy with brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose strongly resembling that of his sister took a few hesitant steps out. "P-please don't kill me," he begged.

Abigail lowered the sword. "Bevil, is it?" she asked.

Bear began to sniff him, seemingly curious when the boy pulled away in fright.

"This isn't your house," he whimpered. "G-Go away."

"Your sister is looking for you," Abigail said, letting the magic drain away. These false alarms were going to give her a heart attack one day. "Why did you run away from the Chantry? You're safe there."

"Safe," he spat. "All they do is pray and cry. Pray and cry. It's stupid. I don't want to be that depressed."

"So you left to be depressed inside of a closet?" she asked wryly.

"No," he said. "I was looking for something. When I heard the footsteps, I hid. But not quick enough."

"No," she agreed. "Not quick enough. Bear here could smell you out."

Bevil gave Bear a surprised glance. "Oh."

"I think you should go back to the Chantry right now," Abby said kindly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

His hands fiddled with something in his pocket. "Y-Yeah. My grampa used to be a Grey Warden, and he had this sword. . . I was—I was going to. . ."

She could see where this was going. "You wanted to use the sword to kill the corpses," she said knowingly. "I respect that. I would do the same thing in your shoes."

"Y-You would?"

"Yes. It's very foolish, though. Your sister was so worried."

"Yeah, well. . ." He pursed his lips. "She's going to be _so-o _mad."

"Yes."

"But. . . I want to fight."

"You want to fight a rotting, decomposing corpse?"

His hand went up to his necklace, something she hadn't noticed before. "Well, yeah," he mumbled. "After. . . after that mage went to the castle, and didn't come back. . ."

"Let me see that necklace," Abigail said suddenly, coming foreword. Ignoring his feeble attempts to pull away, she took the necklace in her fingers and surveyed the monkey-shaped charm with shaking fingers. It emitted a faint aura, nearly overcrowded with the necromancer scent. It explained why she hadn't been able to pick it up before. "You _knew_ her? You knew her?"

"Yeah," he said, pulling away. "Resa was my babysitter. She was _fun_."

"And she had a redwood staff, didn't she?" Abby asked a little sadly. When he nodded, suspiscious, she felt tears prickle her eyes again. "Did you—did you know?"

"That she was a magic-person, like you?" he asked. He squirmed uncomfortably, and she realized she was still holding on to the necklace. She let it go quickly and took a step back, fishing out her own necklace out of her shirt. "Oh. So I guess it's okay to tell you."

"My name is Abigail Amell, Bevin," she said. "Does that name ring a bell?"

"Yeah. . . she had a friend. She said she was a nobleman's kid in Khoury, up near Denereim in the arling of Amaranthine."

"That would be me," Abigail said sadly.

"But you're a _mage._"

"And so was she. But don't tell anybody, okay? Not even your sister. I'm going to go find her, and I'm going to bring her home."

"But she's _dead!_ Just like mum!"

Her eyes clouded over. "Go find your sister, Bevin."

"But--"

"Now, Bevin. Wouldn't you rather spend today with your family? If Kaitlyn doesn't survive, you'll wish you hadn't, either."

Bevin left, and she could tell she hit a mark. Abigail slouched to the ground and Bear came up sympathetically, but he didn't lick her face this time. She just pet his head. "I hope she's not dead, Bear-boy," she whispered, snuggling into the mabari's fur in a much-needed hug. "I can't cope with the thought that I came too late."

He whined a bit in her ear. She wondered how his previous owner had died. "You got your own hurts, too," she told him, stroking his fur. She withdrew to look into his yellow eyes. They were older and more intelligent that she could have imagined in an animal. They spoke volumes, though no words were actually said between them.

Eventually she broke contact, kissing him on top of his head. "I love you," she said. "Don't die on me."

They left shortly afterwords for the inn. She got Bear a bucket of water and herself a pint of the stuff as well. There was no questioning the fact that they had to stay hydrated int eh coming battle, which could last the entire night. To her surprise, Bella, a waitress who took over the owner's establishment when Leliana recruited him, had a few special items she wanted to share.

She had a bag of small silver jars full of power that Abigail could feel even from her seat. "Lyrium," she said, "taken from the Templars at small intervals when they had a surplus of shipments. If they're right in saying you'll save us, you'll need these tiny bottles, okay? Don't let us down."

Abigail took the bottles gratefully, placing them in small pockets alongside easy-access places of her body. For once she was very glad of the assortment of deep, zippered pockets on her leather armor. "Thank you," she said. She couldn't seem to say it enough.

"_Smoke! Smoke from the castle!_"

The shout went up like an alarm, and Abigail rushed past the inn's patrons towards the door. She sprinted for the mouth, as they were calling it, overtaking Alistair and Leliana with her long runner's legs. Bear bounded after her.

She gasped and nearly fell as a sudden burst of power resounded throughout the Fade, a power of darkness and cold so absolute that even to describe it would forever send a chill down her back. It was horrible, as though the necromancer were going to torture her to insanity in that one second, that _one second_--

Bear barked, and she brought herself back to life. Looking up, she noticed that Morrigan was on one knee, sweating and gasping for air. Abigail kicked her as she went past. "Focus!" she snarled.

A glance back said the witch had regained control of her mind. That was good. They were going to need it.

The moon was silver-bright in the navy sky above them. It was later, much later than she'd realized. Taking her place with the Templars at the mouth, she could feel her hands shaking in anticipation, the _okay-why-not-let's-FIGHT_ feeling that had gotten her into more than some trouble in the past. Dwynne and his mercenary group took their stations at the head of the mouth, watching idly as the Templars poured grease over the ground in front of the first fortifications: it looked like and inky black shadow had stretched out to engulf the entire ground.

They took their places behind the wooden fortifications, and Abigail stayed near the cliff's edge on the right, kneeling behind a wooden barricade and praying to the Maker for help. Morrigan took the left, and the lithe shape of Leliana was already climbing up the side of the tower like an acrobat. Soon she was out of sight, her bow and arrow out and aimed at the mouth. Bear stood protectively around Abigail, and she could see Alistair with Morrigan. Sten, it seemed, had joined the mish-mash of Templars guarding the top.

She chanced a look over at Redcliffe Castle, the bane of her friend, and felt suddenly sick. Green vapor curled up from the courtyards for all to see, bursting out of the gate and floating over the long, _long_ bridge like some strange snake. Abigail closed her eyes and shouted, "Morrigan!"

Together they joined their collective mind, not really touching their thoughts, but pouring their energy into a shield that would protect themselves from bolts and arrows. Alistair, Sten, Bear, and Leliana were all shielded simultaneously.

She could feel the first of the undead approaching. Soon they would take a left and come down the hill at a run... and into her trap.

"Maker preserve us," she prayed.


End file.
